


Flutter

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: The Mist - Stephen King, Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Basically Caryl - not not exactly caryl - with multi-dimensional monsters rather than walkers, Blood and Gore, Crossover, Daryl is emotionally constipated and Carol is the cure, F/M, Horror, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Survival Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 37,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her coat tails flapped in the breeze as her pace suddenly devolved, turning into a staggering half run as the material flared out behind her like a banner. It was the only sound in the encompassing quiet – adding harmony to the abyss as her pale throat worked around a sudden sob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead." As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies - with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.
> 
> Warnings: Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all three seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, cannon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.

He found her in the mist. A quivering thing, lost. Her cheeks were stained with half-dried tear tracks and feathered with a fine splattering of gore. Her pretty, cream colored top was stained with it, a mixture of sweat and blood that had been allowed to drip-dry – muted with exertion and a few half-aborted attempts to wipe it away.

The blood wasn't hers - that was what he noticed first. That and the fact that she was holding a nail file out in front of her like a buck knife. It was something which, by itself, may have even been impressive if it hadn't been for the fact that she was about five seconds away from tripping head first into a very painful and unnecessarily agonizing death.

Fuckin' spiders. Or at least he thought they were spiders anyway.

The road ahead was thick with the little motherfuckers. And, unlike when they were on the move the day before, there was no avoiding them now. Because sometime overnight they'd started nesting in the trees, turning forest canopies into kill zones and small clearings into mazes of sticky silk and alien sounds - clicks and chirps that would echo through the mist as the screams of the dying rose and fell in the muted hush.

It was a fresh one too; the kind where the blood was still warm and the…spiders were skittering unconcernedly over mounds of not quite limp flesh. The kind where the people that were still alive whimpered and reached out as you passed, forcing yourself not to react as blunt nails scrabbled desperately across your skin, their pleads hitching into the silence as you bite down on the inside of your cheek – trying to convince yourself that you had no choice, that you couldn't help them.

Knowing that if you stopped, if you paused and even tried to help you'd be right there next to them, suffocating in swaddled silk as the things of nightmares stalked you - scuttling up the length of your chest with their stingers raised as the body next to you starts to convulse. Forcing you to listen, paralyzed, as a chest, a belly, a smooth span of flesh suddenly bulges outwards, tearing as a million squirming little flecks burst out their bodies like vomit – leaving you knowing that all this, this fucked up horror of a thing would be the last thing you'd ever feel.

He knew because he'd just come from there - three bolts and seven shotgun shells ago.

He bit his lip as he watched her hurry past. His boots sunk deep into the muddy clay as he unfolded himself from his crouch, still hidden amidst the undergrowth that lined the side of the road as she stumbled determinedly down the blacktop. Exhaustion and stress highlighted her expression as she peered into the fog, looking as lost as he felt as a soft little sound of dismay rose from her throat.

She wasn't going to make it. She didn't know-

A soft chitter rose up from the brush somewhere up ahead. It wouldn't be long now. They had her scent or maybe his. Either way he knew how to disappear, even from these…things. She didn't. It would be a necessary evil, letting them have her. She would die so that he could live. It was simple really.

His lips pulled back in a soundless snarl when she suddenly turned, her blue eyes blown wide as she seemed to stare right at him – whirling around in a half circle as something fast whipped across the road just behind her. He closed his eyes, but her expression was burned into his eyelids. Staring at him, no, judging him as he tried to tell himself that he didn't care.

She reminded him of a bird, a starling, no, a robin, he decided, as he took in her red hair and proud nose. He cocked his head as the image slowly took shape. She was a bird without a cage, uncertain of what to do with her freedom now that she had it.

Her coat tails flapped in the breeze as her pace suddenly devolved, turning into a staggering half run as the material flared out behind her like a banner. It was the only sound in the encompassing quiet – adding harmony to the abyss as her pale throat worked around a sudden sob.

_What was she looking for?_

She was a wild thing, he knew that almost instinctively. She was strong, not because she had been born that way, but more because she had to be. She was strong because the world was not as perfect as they had been promised. There were no storybook endings or knights in shining armor, just people – flawed, warped and unpredictable. And better yet, the monsters their parents had assured them didn't exist were stalking them through the mist.

In a sense she was a contradiction, she was fierce, yet tame. And honestly, it showed. After all, she had to be either brave or stupid wandering out in the open like this, her purse clutched tightly in front of like some sort of fucked up shield as her mud-splattered heels clicked across the uneven asphalt.

She had somewhere to be.

The muscles in his neck burned as something inside him wavered. Damnit.

He was out of his element here and he knew it. These things, these creatures had changed the rules. The natural order, the god damned food chain, you name it. He had no idea what they were or where they'd come from, he'd been hunting when the storm had hit. It had blown in from the east, up and over the mountains faster than any storm he'd ever seen. He hadn't even had time to make it back to the road. He'd been forced to hunker down with only a blanket from his pack and wait it out. He hadn't slept either, not in that storm and he'd only gotten a few miles in before the mist.

He hadn't seen anything like it, the way it had come billowing through the trees like that. It wasn't natural. He'd figured that out right off the bat. Wind, rain, fog, condensation, it didn't matter; nothing on earth could move like that. Mist didn't just appear out of nothin' - it was impossible, even after that kind of a storm.

But even then he'd had enough sense to start running. He'd been only half a mile from his truck when the mist had enveloped him. And call it instinct, call it good sense or paranoia, but as the fog had billowed around him, shrouding the clearing in front of him with inscrutable white, he'd raised his crossbow.

_Christ, Merle had been right. He should have never left Georgia._

It had been a stupid decision leaving. He'd made the mistake of thinking that if he put enough distance between where he was and where he'd been he'd somehow be able to find something better. But he'd been wrong. And that had been way before all this 'invasion from mars' bullshit.

Because instead of leavin' his problems behind, he'd just put mileage on the old and gained a whole set of new ones to boot. Instead of startin' over, he found himself working in a crappy, run down auto shop with a shifty boss and a handful of co-workers that basically collected felonies. And before he knew it he was back in the same rut, the same god forsaken shit town, the same everything.

It was the same shit, just a different place. He should have known better. He should have just stayed-

But his attention was brought crashing back to the present when she suddenly stopped. Her expression morphed from terror, to surprise and then finally to hope faster than he could process as the happy jingle of a cellphone echoed through the mist. She nearly dropped her purse in her haste to dig it out, ripping it out of its case and flipping it open as the canned ragtime jazz cut off in mid chorus.

"…Victor? Victor, sweetie, I'm here! Are you safe? Your sister? – Where are you? – No, good. Stay there. No- _stay there_. I am coming – I'm close baby, I promise. Mommy is coming to get you both," she assured, looking torn between worry and relief as she took in the road ahead.

_The chicks were chirping from the nest. Afraid and alone…_

He closed his eyes as she cut off in mid word, the line abruptly going dead as she whispered incomprehensibly into the receiver before she held the phone aloft. Weaving this way and that, desperately searching for a signal as the phone beeped discouragingly - low battery.

This was the way the world worked. There were predators and then there was prey. It was how nature worked, how species evolved. The weak and unlucky nourished the stronger and the predator lived to fight another day - in this case, him. It wasn't his place to change all that. Nature wasn't kind, it just was.

But if that were true, then why did he feel like a big old bag of dicks for even thinking about it?

That was when he felt it, the vibrations, the ominous, unending rolls of thunder that rose up from the ground like palsy. He watched first hand as fear slashed across her expression. Unable to help the small burst of admiration that trickled up his spine as she froze in place, the straps of her purse sliding down her arm as she rotated on her heel, trying to judge which direction the sounds were coming from before she decided what to do next.

_Smart bird._

The bushes off to his right shuddered. The drooping leaves trembled like ripples in a pond as he dug the fingers of his free hand deep into the dirt. He felt the barrel of his bolt-action Rugar dig into the curve of his spine as he hefted his crossbow, silently flicking off the safety as his body angled east.

_Something was coming…_


	2. Chapter 2

There was no time to warn her, no time to sidle out of the fog and deal with shit diplomatically. He hit her running. Lunging out of the undergrowth just as she whipped around, blue eyes wide with terror as the ground beneath them trembled. One hand flew to her breast in a soundless scream as the thick, spindly legs of that massive scorpion creature loomed out of the mist – but by then they were airborne.

He took her down into the long grass, rolling them into a weed-choked ditch, grungy and slick with rainwater and muck, as he slapped a hand over her mouth and kept it there. He forced himself not to make a sound when her teeth sunk deep into the curve of his palm – the murky water lapping around her hair, turning the closely shorn strands into tiny auburn feathers as he pressed her into the mud.

She whimpered against his fingers, but he only tightened his hold. Face inches away from hers as he stared her right in the eyes, willing her to understand as the water underneath them trembled and the monstrous thing loomed out of the mist behind them.

_Fuck._

His palm was still tight across her mouth when her arms reached up and grasped his shoulders. Her tiny nails sunk right through the thick material of his leather vest as the monstrous shadow moved above them. But he barely felt it, all he could see was bloodshot white, watching through her eyes as the…creature, at least five stories tall – elephant-like and lined with tentacles reflected in her blown pupils.

The ground trembled. The sound was deafening, so loud that he could actually feel it. The weak daylight that streamed through the mist was suddenly cut off as the shadow overtook them. Off to the right as a large group of…somethings streaked through the brush only meters away – fleeing?

_Oh, if he were a betting man… ___

__He swallowed hard, feeling the thrum of her heart racing underneath his hands as their hips slotted together. Unable to separate himself from the sensation as her breasts jutted upwards, crushing against his vest as the hand that was propped up just over her head, shielding her, sunk a few millimeters deeper into the muddy ditch._ _

___Breathe._ _ _

__It wasn't until her palm gentled across the point where his neck met his shoulder that he realized her fingers had wandered. He nearly choked. Tension vibrated up his spine, muscles trembling, as he forced himself to remain motionless above her. Because it hadn't been accidental, it had been deliberate. It couldn't be written off as a knee-jerk reaction, or the instinctual response to fear that had been ingrained into humanity since the beginning. It had been intimate._ _

__And despite it all, their eyes met – and in that moment something was exchanged. Gratitude, hope, fear, uncertainly, solace…he couldn't tell. Hell, when it all came down to it, it didn't matter because in that second, in that handful of heartbeats that were shared between them, despite the creatures and the muck and everything that had happened since he'd packed his shit into the back of his Ford and made tracks towards the state line, he felt remarkably, no, ridiculously, like he'd finally come home._ _

__It wasn't until the echoes had faded, thrumming out into distance, that he wrenched himself off her, clambering out of the ditch one handed as he held the crossbow aloft, the bolt pointed skyward as she pulled herself out the muck. He felt her, millimeters away and close at his back as he brought his fist up, motioning for her to stop - scanning the tree line for any sign of movement as a piping, unearthly cry echoed from the brush across the road._ _

___They weren't out of the woods yet._ _ _

__He allowed her hand to linger on his arm as she regained her balance, tottering on her heels for a long second as she stumbled awkwardly out of the ditch. She put a measure of distance between them almost immediately, allowing him to breathe easy for the first time since he'd tackled her into the brush._ _

__He didn't want her to get the wrong idea after all. This was a onetime thing, an accident. He didn't need another bleeding heart any more than he wanted another mouth to feed. He didn't need nobody, not her, not the military; he was better off on his own. The last thing he wanted was more baggage, pretty packaging or not._ _

__He avoided her gaze as she turned, smoothing the wrinkled material of her shirt almost fastidiously as she tried her best to wring ditch water out of her coat. She looked more like a sodden bird trying to rearrange its feathers than anything else as she delicately picked a bit of evergreen from her short red hair. He tried not to look. Yet, his eyes still strayed, sticking around long enough to follow the delicate span of her throat as it dipped down to her collar bone, long enough to catch the metallic glint of her necklace as it reflected in the low light. The chain was tangled, half hidden in her collar, but despite it all, the shape was still visible. It was a four leaf clover._ _

___Ironic._ _ _

__Her voice was light, airy and naturally melodic when she finally spoke. "Thank you," she managed, still trying to catch her breath as the distant footfalls of the enormous creature echoed through the mist – angling north, towards the state line, by his best guess._ _

__"You saved me…" she ventured, trailing off in a way that made the words sound more like a question than a statement. Shaking her head almost wonderingly, she tried to recapture his gaze. But he avoided it, unclipping his canteen from the side of his pack and taking long swig – letting the moment grow uncomfortable and stilted before he finally offered it to her._ _

__She drank greedily, like she hadn't seen hide or tail of water in days._ _

__He made a rude sound before he answered, his knee joints cracking as he straightened. "Don't get any ideas, lady," he grunted, adjusting the straps of his backpack, "we were hemmed in. The only way out was to let them duke it out or distract them – at least for a little while," he finished, skirting around the issue as best he could as he tried to figure out his next move. The truth was he still wasn't sure why he'd done it. Why he'd saved her. And personally, he didn't want to examine it too closely either._ _

___Stupid bird._ _ _

__"You are the first person I've seen since dawn," she murmured. "The first one that stopped anyway," she amended, her expression a confusing mix of anger and grief as she scrubbed her face with her hands._ _

__"Where are you headed?" He asked as he stowed the canteen back in his pack, figuring it was only fair if the questions came from both sides._ _

__Her eyes were twin pinpricks of sky blue, fever bright in the surrounding white as she swallowed hard. Her hands trembled at her sides before she stuffed them in her pockets, purse swinging at her side as she finally looked up. Her cheeks reddened when she noticed his scrutiny._ _

__"Home – just off of Grouse road and Harrier" she clarified, indicating off in the direction she'd been headed, right into five square miles of nests – hunting grounds. She'd never make it. After all, he barely had, and he was him._ _

__"Look lady, take my advice. You don't want to go that way," he snorted, kicking a rock clear across the black top as her spine stiffened from stem to stern like a disgruntled tom-cat._ _

__"But my kids," she insisted. "I have to get home to my kids," she trilled, her voice breaking uncomfortably near the end as exhaustion and frustration visibly took its toll. And yet, even he could tell that it more than that, more than simply frustration and fear. Because there was something about the way she said it that made him wonder just how long she'd been telling herself that._ _

__"So? Go a different way," he replied, not seeing the issue. Bridgton was an old logging town; there were hundreds of dirt roads cut through the brush, ringing through the old growth like zig-zags down a mountain side. It shouldn't be too hard for her to find another way, even for a city-slicker._ _

__"There isn't another way," she answered, unconsciously taking a cautious step forward towards home as she pursed her lips - impatient but uncertain._ _

__"Sure there is. You live on the lakefront, right?" He asked, hefting his pack up until it was hanging more comfortably across the span of his shoulders. His sweaty shirt itched across the small of his back – a mess of dirt streaks and blood splattered freckles as the hairs on his forearms prickled in the late afternoon breeze._ _

__"I just moved here last week," she said, looking uncomfortable and almost embarrassed as she shifted uncertainly. "I don't know the area at all; it took me this long to make it from town. I was at the grocery store when it happened. Everyone was- but I left, my kids are alone. I made it to the parking lot, but I couldn't start my car, the motor flooded and-" she caught his look and trailed off, looking mildly apologetic as she sent him a trembling half smile._ _

__"Sorry. I talk when I'm nervous," she explained, her expression turning sheepish as she tucked the straps of her purse more securely over her shoulder._ _

__He just grunted, checking the tension on his crossbow as he directed his gaze north, squinting into the mist. Because really, what the hell was he supposed to say to all that?_ _

__"Where are you headed?" She asked after a moment, breaking the silence gently, almost as if she was afraid of broaching the matter entirely as she gestured toward his pack and the forested clearing he'd come from._ _

__"Away." He grunted, feeling no need to elaborate as discomfort flittered across her expression – the emotion skittish and uncertain as she cocked her head, much like the way a magpie examines a smear of road kill on the side of the blacktop._ _

__She wavered when he didn't continue, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other as the moment grew stale. But he didn't say a word. He just stared right back at her. He was on to her._ _

__"My name is Carol by the way," she finally offered, extending the name like a peace offering - like it was something casual rather than an underhanded attempt to gain his sympathy. Because really, rough patch or not, he still had his fucking pride thank you very much. He wasn't stupid._ _

__"I didn't ask," he snapped, feeling irritable and just shy of vindictive as he watched her face fall. Telling himself he didn't feel like all kinds of an asshole as an apology rose up in his throat like bile. He held it back, but just barely._ _

__His mother had had a bird once, a beady little terror of a thing that did nothing but chirp off key and bobble-step around its water dish like a three year old on a sugar high. His mother had adored it whereas he'd secretly wanted to strangle the stupid thing. She said having him reminded her of summer, and when push came to shove, his momma had gotten her way._ _

__The thing had been damn near indestructible. He didn't know how it'd lasted as long as it did, but it had. It had survived Merle, him, the cats, empty water dishes, and lazy days where his mama forgot to take the blanket off the cage until dinner the next day._ _

__Once, while he was cleaning the cage, it'd gotten loose. It had fluttered around the house for hours in a storm of feathers and old bird seed, forcing them to dodge streaks of flying shit as it pinged off the walls like a bat out of hell. It had never been out of its cage before, and the stupid thing had no idea what to do with itself other than the fact that it was out. Free. For the first time in its life the sky really was the limit._ _

__The only thing was, like he'd said, the little shit was dumber than a pile of rocks. It hit walls instead of perching and squawked bloody murder whether you were chasing after it or ignoring it. It had all the instinct to survive in the wild, but none of the smarts, none of the practice. And if there weren't enough similarities between that god damned bird and this woman, then it was worth pointing out that they were both shaping up to be royal pains in his ass._ _

__He knew what she wanted. It was all there, painted across her face like one of those billboards on the Vegas strip. He decided to cut her off at the pass._ _

__"I don't take in strays. And I ain't interested in your problems, lady. I've got my own to worry about," he gritted, turning off to the side and spitting up a mouthful of grit as he gnawed on the inside of his cheek._ _

__"It seems like we have the same problem," she countered, tone purposeful yet gentle as she crossed her hands over her chest, fixing him with a clinical, but thoughtful expression that would have probably had a lesser man running for the hills._ _

__But he stood his ground. She was smart, pragmatic but moral. In short, she was a mother - circling the nest, searching, fierce when needed but nurturing by nature. He recalled the tinny little voice on the other end of the phone. She'd heard her chick's cries; she would stop at nothing to get back to them. She'd lay it all on the line, her life, his, especially his. Oh, she'd feel bad about it later, but like it or not, eventually his sacrifice would be seen as a necessarily evil in her mind, something worth a few months of restless nights, if any at all._ _

__He was a stranger, _expendable.__ _

__He made the mistake of looking up and found that her eyes were kind. He cursed internally._ _

__"If we could just -" She began, one hand rising placatingly as she tried to recapture his gaze._ _

__But he cut her off before she could get there, lips curling into an ugly look as somewhere in the distance as trumpeting roar echoed in the mist, "we? Lady, there ain't no we," He practically snarled, not even noticing that he'd advanced on her until she flinched backwards._ _

__But she talked right over him, the words spilling out of her mouth like she hadn't even heard him. Her expression was drawn and tight around the eyes as she caught his gaze and held it – an off-centre contradiction of fear and strength._ _

__"My neighbor has a truck. I know where the keys are."_ _

__"There are abandoned cars all over the place," he pointed out, "you ain't lookin' at no saint here lady, I can have one of them hot-wired in under a minute," exaggerating a little. He wanted to see her hand first. The bird was keeping something back, a trump card. He wanted to know what it was._ _

__"Earlier, there was a van, a bunch of people were heading west - survivors. They stopped but they wouldn't take me home, I heard them talking about a safe zone. Something the military has set up. A safe place – secure, where there is food, water, first aid. If we get to my place we can-" She replied._ _

__He laughed. But it was bitter sound. "And if I do? Then what? What's stopping me from just taking the truck and leaving? Hell, what is–" he shook his head, cutting himself off as the words grew bitter in his mouth._ _

__"Even if you do, getting to my kids is the most important thing in the world to me right now, if we get there and that is how you feel, well, you do what you have to do," she said softly. Her expression was not quite pleading, no she was too proud for that, more yearning than anything._ _

__"I don't owe you nothin'..." He muttered, feeling as though it was important to remind her of that despite the fact that he was rapidly tipping the scales, stumbling into the grey as all the lines he'd told himself he'd draw when he'd rolled them into that ditch grew hazy and uncertain._ _

___Damnit._ _ _

__"Right now sticking together is in both our best interests." She pointed out, twisting the straps of her purse between her hands as something scuttled through the underbrush to the right, skimming the tree line with worrisome boldness as he followed the sound, his crossbow raised._ _

___They needed to move._ _ _

__He used the moment to think, clearing his head-space as he followed the creature through the stripped huckleberry bushes that lined the side of the road. In a way she was right, access to a gassed up vehicle he didn't have to waste time tryin' to hot-wire was appealing – the same went for this safe zone, if it even existed in the first place._ _

__The bird was sharp. He'd give her that – shrewd, but sharp._ _

__"Lady, you don't know me," he sighed, feeling tired in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion as any lingering resistance filtered through him like water from a sieve._ _

__Why did he have to be responsible for this, for her? Where the hell was it written? He knew what Merle would have said, hell, he knew what Merle would have likely done too if given half the chance. But he wasn't Merle. …And maybe that was the point._ _

__"No, I don't. But you're not afraid. I was at a grocery store when all this happened. There were dozens of people and not one helped me. They let me walk right out the front door – knowing what would happen. You've done more for me right here than anyone else has done since this whole mess started," she replied, her expression turning resentful and haunted as her eyes turned distant._ _

__"…That and I have faith," she added after a moment. The words were soft, low, almost as if she was hoping that he wouldn't hear as her fingers, long and delicate, carded through her short auburn hair._ _

__He snorted. "Well let me know how that whole fate thing works out for you," he muttered gesturing off into the mist as something unimaginably massive trumpeted in the distance. "Because I can guarantee you that faith alone won't get you ten feet down that road," he snapped._ _

__"It's gotten me this far," she shot back, her cheeks tinged with red as she threw his words right back at him with all the grace of a spirited eight year old sticking their tongue out behind the teacher's back._ _

__The silence was awkward._ _

__But she refused to look away._ _

__Finally he ducked his head, his limbs angry and restless as he shifted away from her. Feeling caged and cornered by her, this…bird of all things. Christ, he was losing his touch._ _

__"Near as I can tell, the little ones, the bugs, are attracted to light. Maybe even movement. So, if you even so much as make peep when we get cornered, I'm gone." He hissed, cursing himself and his bleeding heart as she nodded. She paused, one hand on her breast, looking him right in the eye as her expression turned warm, relieved - making to speak as something in her gaze softened._ _

___She didn't want to be alone._ _ _

__"Oh, and mister, call me 'lady' one more time and this lady will be forced to do something very unladylike, got it?" She added, throwing the words over her shoulder with all the temerity of a solider igniting napalm as he watched her walk away, her full hips swaying like a pendulum as she started down the road._ _

___Feisty._ _ _

__He stared, and while he wasn't sure why, the hint of a grin threatened to curl across his lips. "Yes ma'am," he retorted, his Georgian accent lingering just long enough to make her aware of the sarcasm before he looked away, tightening the straps on his pack and checking the safety on his crossbow before he motioned her to lead the way._ _

__The glare he got in return was beyond satisfying._ _

__"It's this way," she snapped, her heels clicking across the pavement off to his left as he shook his head and followed her into the white._ _

__Because really, what else was he supposed to do?_ _


	3. Chapter 3

She broke his first rule ten minutes in, matching his strides as they left the road and began picking their way through the brush. He gave the nests a wide berth, deliberately lengthening their trek as he angled them in a more northerly direction – figuring they could swing back once they were outside of the creature's hunting grounds. He wasn't taking any chances.

"Did you lose anyone?" She asked, breaking the silence that had descended between them since they'd left the road. He cocked his head, trying to gauge her sincerity. But if he was looking for a lie, he didn't get one. She reeked of honesty.

"Ain't got no one to lose, not here anyway," he grunted, squinting into the fog as the forest around them grew thicker. The woods around them were choked with old growth trees, most had ancient, wobbly x's painted across their trunks. Shame.

He wondered off-handedly if the logging company would ever come to collect, especially now. Somehow, he didn't think so. The government would probably just firebomb the lot: Bridgton, the military base, even the surrounding counties just to make sure. Just like they did in remote villages in the ass-end of the world whenever there was an outbreak of something particularly nasty. And whether it was a government cover up or just operational prudence, he could certainly understand it.

Some things had no business seeing the light of day.

"Georgia, right?" She asked, ducking her head a bit when he shot her a look. "The accent is pretty distinct," she explained, sending him a small smile as the back of his neck burned on reflex.

_Christ._

"I doubt all this has spread that far," she offered after a moment, surprising him with her sincerity as she tried to set his mind at ease - trying to make _him_ feel better as she ran her hand across the trunk of a wide-set oak.

Honestly, she shouldn't have bothered.

"Won't much matter if it does," he snorted, gesturing off into the white. "Merle is the kind of bastard that would enjoy shit like this. He'd be the last one standing too - tough as shit, my older brother," he grunted, swinging under a low-lying branch as they entered a small, logged out clearing.

"Is that who you left behind? To come here?" She asked, her tone gentle but strangely knowing as she tried to navigate around a fallen tree, heels slipping in the mud as she vaulted over it, scrambling awkwardly across the slippery moss as her stupid shoes gained her little traction.

He baulked, angry. Rage sizzled across his vision at the implication. Partly cause it was none of her god-damned business and partly because it was true. Merle had burned those bridges a long time ago. Hell, he'd all but pushed him out the front door. Not in so many words of course, but he'd made it clear that he wasn't going to change - even for him, no, especially not for him.

He'd done his part, he'd tried. He'd tried to be the good, loyal little brother, following in Merle's footsteps as it were - talkin' like him, actin' like him, trying to be just like him. But then Merle had gone away, to juvy. And then the police had come, the government, perm-pressed social workers with tired smiles that had sat him down and checked off boxes on fancy legers - looking uncomfortable and nervous as his father had glared at them from the kitchen, drinking whiskey out of a coffee mug at ten in the morning. They'd spouted words like rehab and addiction, broken bones and pending litigations. And suddenly he realized he didn't want to be just like Merle after all.

But when Merle had gotten out of juvy he'd come back _worse_ , not better. And eventually he realized that if he didn't want to become Merle he was going to have to leave. Merle didn't want to be saved. It had taken decades to make the distinction, to realize that the Merle who had never hesitated to knock heads together for the sake of his little brother, hadn't survived past that first stint in prison. After all, you couldn't save someone who didn't want to believe they needed it – or deserved it for that matter.

He shook his head, banishing the memories back into the lock-box they'd broken out from - out of sight, out of mind. But she was still waiting for an answer.

A retort rose to his lips, something about them having leaving people behind in common. He bit down the urge to taunt her with shit she couldn't change. Choices and decisions she could've made but hadn't. But he swallowed them. She didn't need that.

_She didn't know. After all, how could she?_

They remained silent for some time. There was no need to talk. The forest was doing enough of that for them. The canopy above was alive with strange sounds and the surrounding woods echoed with unnatural footfalls. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, hackles rising like a lone wolf caught out in the open, snarling as another predator, a better predator, stalked them through the evergreens.

The air felt electric - charged, but uncertain. The food chain had been flipped on its head and the world was scrambling to keep up. The rules had changed. The world had changed. The only question was how long it was going to last.

And deep down, despite the mask, despite the calm facade that fit over him like a second skin, the change rankled him, because it wasn't right. This, whatever this was, had changed the rules. The natural order was out of whack, predator? Prey? It didn't matter. Even the birds were silent. Like an ostrich that had buried its head in the sand, the animals of Bridgton, Maine had hunkered down - waiting it out.

For the first time in his life the forest was a mystery to him.

He didn't trust it.

And perhaps that was worst thing about it.

He was distracted from his thoughts when she stumbled into him. Catching one of her thin little heels on a snarl of roots and pitching forward. Wings fluttering, wind-milling in the air for a few long seconds as he lurched backwards, whirling instinctively as he caught her in mid-fall.

"Sorry," she murmured, breathless from the near miss as he helped her stand, trying not to notice that she smelled like old sweat and crushed lavender as her fingers curled around the cut off sleeves of his leather vest - tugging and overly familiar.

A muscle twitched in his jaw - straining under the skin as her nails rasped down his forearm. Jesus shit.

"You ain't gonna get far with those shoes," he finally grunted, throwing the words over his shoulder as he started walking, desperate to put some distance between them.

"I'll be fine," she insisted, struggling a bit as she crunched unsteadily across an uneven stretch of gravel.

"Fine my ass. You're going to either get us killed or break your fucking ankles. And if you think I'm carrying your ass all the way home you've got another thing com'in," he grated, frowning as he watched her little brown heels wobble alarmingly, threatening to topple over every other step as she used her hands to steady herself.

For moment she just stared, glaring daggers at him for a few long seconds before her shoulders started to shake. Trying and ultimately failing to suppress a few undignified snorts before she threw back her head and laughed – the sound tinkling and melodic as it trilled out into the silence.

He might have smiled back.

It wasn't long before the brush started thinning. She sent him a questioning look but he simply waved it off. Like he'd said before, Bridgton was an old logging town; there were roads, dirt or otherwise all over the place. In this case, the more they angled towards the lakefront the more they would have to cross over some of the town's more well-used roads. The lakefront was prime real estate – he'd been in the area long enough to notice that they were trying to spruce up the town's image, aiming to market the area as a vacation hot-spot or something. According to his boss there had been a lot of focus on roadwork the past few summers – enough to both piss off the locals and bring in just enough new business that they weren't scandalized enough to take their hissy fit up to City Hall.

Either way, he didn't plan on them walkin' the whole way. He hadn't slept in days and she was five minutes away from going barefoot.

He jumped the ditch, signalling for her to wait on the other side as he scouted ahead. The faded blacktop was littered with abandoned cars. It stunk of panic and something else, something unfamiliar as he neared the first car, seeing the body of it, clean and apparently untouched as it loomed out of the mist.

His crossbow was up, index finger tight on the trigger as he approached. The driver's side door was wide open but the engine still running. He ducked behind it, coming around it from the opposite side as he peered through the passenger window.

_Jesus fuck!_

He jolted backwards, lips twisting harshly as what he saw sent bile surging up the back of his throat. He coughed, the smell almost unbearable as the scent of exposed stomach acids and fresh shit issued from the back of the sedan. He stumbled backwards, eyes fast on the tree line as his hip scored against the open gas tank. Its trunk was roped shut and stuffed with luggage, almost as if whoever had owned it had decided to make a break for it but failed.

He spat. Trying to rid himself of the smell that seemed to permeate the very air as he moved away, heading back the way he'd come without even so much as a backward glance.

He didn't search any farther than that. He just offered her his hand as she jumped the ditch and followed close at his heels. He shook his head when she motioned hopefully towards the black sedan, the motor still purring audibly, despite the encroaching mist as they crossed the road and headed back into the brush.

Maybe they'd be luckier next time.


	4. Chapter 4

"You still haven't told me your name," she reminded him, her tone hopeful but irritated as she picked her way through the undergrowth. Hopping delicately, she shook off a clump of prickles and muttered as she twitched her skirt back around and wavered unsteadily. She looked out of place, like a raven trying to impress a mate in the middle of a feeding frenzy.

It would have been hilarious, if things weren't so god damned fucked up.

He was about to reply when they were interrupted, freezing in place as a piercing scream rose in the distance. It was close. _Too close._ He hit the dirt, feeling her follow suit as they crouched behind a fallen log.

"…What is it?" she whispered, their fingers in danger of tangling together as she huddled close.

"Nothing good," he hissed, forgetting to tell her to shut it as the screams rose up again – masculine and high with terror, not half a mile straight ahead. He listened, cocking his head as he strained to hear. The poor bastard was being hunted.

He couldn't tell by what, but he could guess.

"Shouldn't we help them?" she asked, her voice uncertain as she peered above the fallen log. She was frowning, so close that he could feel her breath on his face, warm and stale as her expressive eyes stared off in the direction of the shouts.

_The bird was learning. Good._

He listened, trying to block out the now hysterical edge to the man's yells as they echoed through the mist, brutal and terrified as he slowly shook his head. They wouldn't get there in time. The man was already dead; he just didn't know it yet.

"Only if you want to join him," he replied, tone bordering on unkind as he unfolded himself from his crouch – wiping dirty hands across equally filthy jeans as he stepped over the rotting trunk, angling away from the screams, as a different voice suddenly echoed through the mist. This time feminine and shrill as the sound of a shotgun blast filtered through the forest canopy, echoing like a death knell.

She paused before she followed; looking as though she was going to say something but thought better of it. She didn't say anything when, a few moments later, the panicked screams suddenly broke off, devolving into an agonized cry, then silence.

_The weak and the unlucky fed the strong. That was the way the world worked._

The bird didn't say much after that.

They swung east for a few miles, well out of the way of whatever might still be lingering in the area before he angled back towards the lakefront. It wouldn't be long now. They might even make it before dark – if they were lucky. Truth be told, he didn't want to be caught out in the dark – not with what he'd seen.

They crossed through the forest and onto another deserted stretch of blacktop half a mile later. It was an intersection; barely, host to a light and a four way stop. Everything you'd expect from a sleepy little logging town. Trash littered the road, remnants from someone's garbage can, probably wreckage from the storm. But other than that the road was deserted – no cars, no sign of life whatsoever.

He'd just motioned for her to follow when the metal trash can suddenly popped, the cheap metal pinging through the silence like a gun shot. He flinched, finger tight on the trigger of his bow when the can gave another threatening wriggle. He took a step forward but paused when he heard the bird shift, her heels rasping across the faded blacktop just a few feet behind him as an unvoiced question died in her throat.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, tongue flirting with the taste of iron as the muscles in his arms tensed, over-prepared and on-edge.

He nearly had a god damned heart attack when – not half a second later - a dog, an overfed Heinz-57 style mutt suddenly darted out of the overturned can. He nearly toppled over, instinctively scrambling backwards until his eyes and his brain finally decided to work together - cursing himself for getting distracted as the bird wisely kept her distance.

The dog paused on the side of the road, leash trailing. It looked back at them consideringly as the garbage can rocked back and forth behind it. It was an odd looking thing, a Shepard maybe – with one ear sticking straight up, and the other, reddish-brown and floppy pointing straight down. It was something that only served to make it look perpetually surprised as it stared at them distrustfully.

They stared right back.

There was a pair of sandals lying in the middle of the intersection, spaced out almost perfectly, almost as if the person had run right out of them. They were too small to be an adult's – perhaps a child's. The bird made a wounded sound in the back of her throat – definitely a child's.

The dog's hackles went up as they made to cross. The fur around its neck ruffled in warning as its tail remained firmly between its legs, dappled belly quivering as it froze in place, its dark eyes following their progress as they gave the frightened animal its space.

It was only when he took a second look that he realized the leash that trailed behind it was streaked with red. Almost as if its owner had been snatched up in mid-run, their grip automatically locking, slicking the lead in an uneven layer of red seconds before the grip went slack and they were yanked upwards, disappearing into the mist as the dog in question bolted.

They shared a look but said nothing.

They left the dog undisturbed as they crossed the road and jumped the ditch, disappearing into the trees as the pert sound of trimmed canine claws clicked hesitantly across the blacktop, watching them go until even that was swallowed by the quiet.

They only stopped for a breather when he got tired of listening to her stomach grumble. The sound was grating, a hollow burble of sloshing fluids and angry echoes. But she was a stubborn thing. Even when he sat down on the edge of a small roadside clearing and pulled out a bag of jerky, she didn't outright ask.

He could tell as clear as day what she wanted. Hell, she was practically salivating, her pretty little throat working minutely as her gaze fastened on the bag. She was exhausted and hungry – she probably hadn't had anything to eat since this entire mess had started.

He was about to hand it over when he hesitated. The thin plastic rustling between his fingers as a particularly loud rumble issued from the log across from him. She blushed – almost fidgeting now.

Her reluctance to just straight up ask intrigued him. Was it pride? Distrust? Or was it simply impatience? Wanting to get home – back to her chicks - as soon as possible? Perhaps it was even all three.

_Smart bird._

It was a near thing when he tossed her the bag of jerky. Part of him was just sadistic enough to wonder how long it would take before she caved in and the other just wanting the moment over and done with. They had a lot ground to cover and not enough daylight to do it in.

"What kind is it?" She asked, speaking around her first bite as she gnawed on the smoked venison.

"Does it matter?" He countered, testing the edge of his buck knife with his thumb before he reached into a side pocket and pulled out his sharping block.

And apparently it didn't, because she tore into the snack with relish. Her eyes momentarily closed, all but purring in satisfied bliss as she forced herself to swallow, gulping awkwardly as she tried to eat as fast as possible. Her lips were slick with saliva as she tore off another piece, watching with undisguised curiosity as the blade rasped across the block in long, balanced strokes.

"What were you doing out anyway? Taking a day trip the morning after a storm like that ain't exactly my idea of a good time," he finally questioned, not exactly sure why he'd asked in the first place as he listened to her tear into the jerky. The sound was barely audible above the cool rasp of flint meeting carbonized metal as he sharpened the very tip of the blade - careful and practiced as she fiddled with her shirt.

The corners of her lips quirked upwards, like he'd said something funny as she took a small sip of water before answering.

"Ice, mainly. I wanted to pack the freezer so the meat wouldn't spoil," she replied, shaking her head slightly as her gaze went distant. "Sounds pretty stupid now…"

"And what? Your husband's outta town?" He asked, not exactly sure he wanted to know as his gaze automatically flicked towards her ring finger - testing the tension wires on his bow as he waited. Caught between cussing himself out and frowning when all he could make out was a tan line.

"…Recently divorced," she replied crisply. The expression on her face made him do a double take. Her tone was clipped and evasive for the first time since he'd set eyes on her – body language making it clear that she didn't want to discuss it.

_He'd hit a nerve._

And it was probably exactly because of that that it only made him want to dig for more. He wanted to pick her apart piece by piece until he had the vulnerable heart of her in his hands. He wanted her raw and still bleeding as he held the tiny thing up to the light, cradled in his calloused hands like some sort of a trophy as the entire world howled - mourning the loss.

She startled him out of his thoughts as she handed him the bag of jerky. Half full. Considerate.

"Aren't you having any?" She questioned changing the subject with such smoothness that he didn't even have time to question the sincerity of the guilt and concern that filtered across her face in jarring free-form as he folded the bag and started to put it away.

"Ain't hungry," he returned, gently pinching the zip closed before he tucked it back into his pack – pointedly ignoring the dull throb of hunger in favor of taking a careful sip from his canteen.

It was a lie. And this time they both knew it.

It was nearing twilight by the time they came across another road – the muted sunset bathing the mist in a swirl of pale yellows and pinks. It might have even been beautiful if it hadn't been so god damned terrifying. Tension itched between his shoulders as he looked to the horizon, trying to judge how much daylight they had left. They needed to find shelter and fast; otherwise they wouldn't survive the night - not both of them at any rate.

"I recognize this! It's the last intersection before the lakeshore!" She suddenly exclaimed, perking up with excited familiarity as she jumped the ditch in front of him – ignoring him completely as he hurried to follow. Vaguely listening to her ramble on about how it couldn't be long now as he followed more cautiously in her wake.

The road ahead was surprisingly clear. There was nothing to indicate that anything other than the storm had passed through here. No cars, no people, no… _whatever_ they were. In fact the only thing of note was an uprooted stop sign that had been propped up against a tree beside the intersection, half buried in muck on the edge of the road.

He weighed the odds. He wasn't exactly comfortable being out in the open. But on the other hand, they might be able to cover more ground if they stayed on the road for a while. The road looked safe enough, at least for now.

The traffic light hanging over the intersection seemed strangely still, at odds with the light breeze that fanned through the trees on either side of them. The power was still out. How long had it been now, forty-eight hours? Seventy-two? Where the hell was FEMA? The military? Hell, he'd take the fuckin' Red Cross from Anchorage, Alaska right about now.

_Where was everyone?_

"Oh, it was like that yesterday morning," she assured, catching his gaze as he examined the mangled stop sign, thumbing the edges curiously as the warped metal scored across his calloused palms. "I passed it on the way in. The storm must have done it," she added, leaning up against an electrical pole as she toed off one of her shoes and rubbed her sore heels.

The skin was blood-red and irritated even from the distance as she winced, fingers passing over a particularly sore spot before she allowed her hands to move on. Trickling up the lean length of her calf in soothing, rhythmic motions that had him relaxing on reflex. Her muscles trembled under her hands, colt-like and oddly graceful as she remained focused on her task. Her skin was pale but freckled, littered with the occasional bruise or scrape that gradually pinkened under her ministrations.

It was oddly cathartic, watching her. It reminded him of something, something elusive. Something he couldn't quite place as her long, tapering fingers bunched and released. Something in his chest slackened, muscles relaxing, seemingly for the first time in decades as a low hum of sound rose up from her throat.

_Christ._

He didn't know how long they stayed like that. How long he let the moment rest before he finally shook himself out of his own head. He cleared his throat and squinted into the mist, forcing himself to focus as he eyed the tree-line, making sure they were still alone before he turned back to face her.

"Co'mon," he finally grunted, tearing his gaze away as she straightened, all long, lithe lines and gently flared hips out of the corner of his eye that arched up as she stretched.

He didn't say anything when she made a point of walking at his side. Shoulder to shoulder as they disappeared into the mist.

He wouldn't have known what to say anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

They made it about a mile down the road before they saw it, an awkward, twisted hulk of a car that was riding the median between the side of the road and the tree line. It was barely level, its tires blown and its frame crumpled like a handful of matchsticks.

Hell, it was facing the _wrong_ way on the _wrong_ side of the road, almost as if something impossibly large had slapped it clear across the blacktop.

Near as he could tell, it had probably been some sort of SUV – the kind that families who actively scorn minivans tend to snap up on red tag sales around Labor Day. But even then, considering the state of it, that guess was generous at best.

He stalled. Something wasn't right. It wasn't the how or the what that bothered him, but when, because something that could do that had to be big. If it had been here recently they should have heard it, even through the mist.

Something was off - _wrong._ He just didn't know what.

But the bird, apparently, had no such qualms. In fact, impatience streamed out of her like blood from an open wound. She didn't understand. Not the situation nor its complexities and she likely didn't want to, either. She was thinking with her heart, not her gut. He understood it – what she wanted, but he wasn't taking any chances. They had no way of knowing if one of those things was still in the area, he needed to scout ahead, to make sure it was safe before they continued.

After all, he didn't reckon on running into whatever had done that anytime soon.

He held up a hand when she started to walk around him, fingers accidentally skimming across the arch of her hip as she slowed. The wreck was barely visible through the mist, settled in a sea of broken glass and cracked pavement as his gaze was drawn back towards the vehicle itself. Even from the distance it was apparent that the roof had been sheered clean off, the supporting metal slates jagged and exposed as they surged up into the sky like a company of mismatched spears.

A light wind rippled through the tree line, momentarily thinning the mist ahead. His spine stiffened as a barely discernible lump in the front seat slowly came into view. He squinted, trying to make it out. Was that a-

He was so busy taking it in that he didn't notice she was suddenly up and moving before it was too late. He probably wouldn't have been able to stop her anyway; there was recognition in her steps. Set alight by that same brand of hope that rises in your chest when you find a friend in the middle of a hurricane. On one hand, you have your friend, but on the other, you're still fucked.

She was surprisingly quick on her feet when she wanted to be, with her heels click-clacking across the uneven blacktop as he cursed and hurried after her. He caught a hold of her shoulder a few feet away from the crumpled vehicle, but forgot to take her to task for barging ahead of him when he caught sight of them.

She ducked out from under his hand, shaking him off as a small cry of dismay slipped from her lips as she stumbled into the side of the twisted wreck. Her fingers skittered away from the bloody hand print that was splayed across the broken glass – half dried across the driver's side window.

But she stilled before she reached the handle.

And when he got closer, he understood why. The roof had been peeled clear off, along with part of the frame. Except, in some weird twist of fate, one of the supporting beams that had been connected to the roof had been folded in half, slicing right through the woman, dead in the passenger seat, and the child still strapped into his car seat behind her.

The bird breathed sharply through her nose, almost as if she was fighting off the urge to be sick.

There was no sign of the driver save for a snapped seat belt and large pool of red that had dried into the vinyl - sloppy and smudged as if the person had been holding on to the dash before they were ripped away.

"Don't look." He murmured, knowing it was about as comforting as it was useless as he made a circuit around the vehicle – swiftly taking in the damage. The metal spike had pierced right through the back seat as well, skewering both of them through the chest as it went. They'd been dead on impact, if he was any judge. Probably - hopefully.

_Fuck._

The woman in the front seat was a graceful thing, splayed out in a fit of rounded curves and tangled curls. She was a broken puppet that had been pinned in place – her strings were tangled, knotted and broken. And the child, a boy, barely out of diapers, was slumped over in his car seat behind her. His chubby fingers limp around the edges of a worn, yellow blanket.

"You know 'em?" He asked, the words coming out more like a statement then a question as she slumped against the driver's side door, expression partially hidden behind her sleeves as she wiped at her face. Her cheeks were bloodless and pale as her fingers trembled.

"They lived up the road," she began, her voice unsteady, pained, as she looked off into the mist. "The Thompson's, they came over when we moved in. They brought us lasagne, a welcome to the neighborhood kind of gift, you know? – I still have the pan. I was going to return it yesterday," she breathed, fingers smoothing through her hair like the very action could bring back the levity she'd lost.

"They were nice, real. He was a software…something. And she was a teacher, tw-twin boys…" she continued, trailing off near the end as her gaze lingered on the backseat. He followed suit, in spite himself - swallowing a surge of bile when he realized that, just like the father, there was no sign of the other boy - just a bloody seat back and open sky.

_Christ._

He spat on the ground, restless. The air smelled of blood and piss, of old death and ripped up sod. There was nothing for them here. He curled his shoulders inward, protective. He caught her eye as she straightened, spine stiff against the side of the mangled car as dusk swirled around them.

They had to move.

"We're losin' light," he uttered, his voice coming out surprisingly gentle as he met her gaze, looking anywhere but at the slumped bodies behind her as she finally nodded. A single tear trickled down her cheek before she dashed it away, drawing herself up as she walked back the way she'd came. She was a steady presence at his side as her shoulder rubbed up against his, comforting and warm as he ducked his head, crossbow resting against his forearm as he let her.

And for one of the few times in his life, the fluttering weight of someone else's hand brushing against his was okay.

They were about to turn away when there was a cough - liquidy and cloying as the puppet in the front seat suddenly breathed.


	6. Chapter 6

The bird didn't miss a beat. She was up and struggling with the door before he could even so much as blink – hope trumping logic as she wrestled with the handle on the driver's side. The metal was warped and not cooperating as she tried to reach between the shards of shattered glass to open it from the inside.

"Help me!" She cried, her voice high and strained like somehow his attention would mean the difference between life and death - like she actually thought the woman could be saved. Or maybe she just wanted to believe it; either way, he told himself he didn't care.

It was a lie, but it was better than getting invested. He knew that from experience.

A frustrated sound issued from the back of her throat as she yanked on the handle - already making far too much noise as the ruined metal screeched, the jagged ends grating as she turned around and caught his gaze. If she didn't shut up she was going to-

"Please?"

_For fuck's sake._

He shook his head, but approached the side of the SUV anyway, knowing well enough what they'd find when they got inside. The woman was beyond their help. That die had already been cast.

He approached the passenger's side cautiously, mindful of the debris – all shattered glass and bloody smears as he caught the bird's eye above the sheared off roof.

"What's her name?" He mouthed. But she just shook her head, helpless, as guilt and horror flirted with the worried downturn of her lips as she tried to open the driver's side door. The warped metal _screeched,_ pinging dully into the quiet before he signaled her to leave it. Whatever had done this might still be around.

He tested the handle before he made to open it, careful to make sure the injured woman wasn't banking too much of her weight against it before he eased it open. The click was loud in the surrounding quiet, jarring, but the woman inside barely reacted.

It was the smell that hit him first. The sharp, stale musk of old blood and body fluids - all mixed together with pine scented air freshener that actually turned his stomach. The woman's hair was red. The pale blond strands had been stained a muted crimson across her scalp, standing out in off-centered streaks. But he would have bet a month's pay it _wasn't_ her own. It was too high and the angle was all wrong. His eyes flicked towards the back seat on reflex.

He didn't gag, but it was a near thing.

Her eyes were unfocused, sightless – filmed with new death and dried salt tracks that had plastered her lashes against her skin. He doubted she'd seen anything out of them for hours. Her body was shutting down, dying - protecting all the vital functions until the bitter end. It was poetic, in a morbid sort of way. It was a swan song – a near perfect design.

But in her case it was just downright cruel. She was already dead; she just hadn't stopped breathing yet.

The woman swallowed thickly, hissing out blood spatter as pink froth bubbled up from her ruined lungs. Her head tipped minutely in his direction as his fingers found her pulse point, gentling her chilled skin as she struggled to bring him into focus. Her mouth was knocked loose, slack as she struggled to breathe. The silence that seeped out between them was stale and uncomfortable.

"The boys…" She finally murmured, "…are my boys? Did Scott? Did he-"

The bird's hands tightened around the side of the broken driver's side window, leaving dents in the rubber as the injured woman eventually trailed off – her voice breathy and strained as she tried to look behind her, but couldn't.

She didn't know. _Christ._

The piece of metal that had scored through her had limited her range of movement. The angle and the position she was in meant she couldn't turn around. And the outside mirrors had been stripped off the side of the SUV in the resulting attack. Who knows how long she'd been there? With that type of wound it was hard to say, hours, maybe a day? She'd probably been going in and out of consciousness for hours, delirious with blood loss and trauma. She had no way of knowing. No way of knowing that one of her boys, his little body all pale and blue in the back seat, had been there all along, dead on impact.

He swallowed, hard.

Heat rose to his face as the moment stretched. He hesitated. He had two choices and he didn't particularly relish either one of them. The woman made a soft sound, something terribly close to a whimper as he opened his mouth but nothing came out.

_Shit._

"They're safe, ma'am," he began, gnawing in the inside of his cheek as her features lit up. "They're with your husband," he lied, "They got away; they were looking for help and found us." His throat tightened as the lines around her mouth eased, lips trembling upwards into something close to a smile as the bird tried to catch his gaze from across the car.

But he didn't look up. He couldn't.

"Oh thank god, I was afraid they'd-" She rasped, her expression blissful and shot through with relief as she struggled to breathe.

The puppet shivered. Her blouse, a lacy thing with thin straps and a pearl button camisole was caked with layer after layer of partially congealed blood. Her lap was mess of red and old vomit, but he ignored it. He snatched up the coat that had been tossed onto the floor in the backseat and covered her the best he could, tucking the collar around her shoulders as the shivers turned into spasms. He winced as she coughed, gently bracing his hand against her shoulder as she leaned into him, unashamed, her clammy forehead soaking up the warmth radiating from his skin as a smear of red colored his forearm.

It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

"Can you…can you tell them to wait? I don't want them to see me like this – especially the boys," she shuddered, her fingers cold and weak as they curled around the small of his wrist.

He nodded, clasping her free hand unbidden, eyes straying down to her ruined torso before gently reaching down and uncurling the other from the piece of metal that disappeared into her chest. But despite his touch, she seemed to sink impossibly further into the cushions. Deflating, like a tired balloon as whatever strength she'd kept in reserve slowly drained out of her.

_Jesus, he was going to the special hell, he just knew it._

She was pretty, he realized. Pretty in the mature, conventional way that the girl next door eventually grows into a few years after high school. The kind that genuinely flowers as she makes her way out into the world, seeing, doing and being – but still managing to marry her high school sweetheart and settle down in a mirror of the town she'd grown up in.

Her nails, all worn gloss and dirty polish dug into his skin, sharp enough to hurt. And for reasons beyond him, he was glad - glad that it hurt. He wouldn't have known how to deal with it otherwise.

"I thought – I thought it was going to be different," she whispered, her voice hitching painfully as she exhaled. Her heart beat was slow… _too slow_ against his fingers, sluggish and inharmonious as her lashes fluttered – exhausted.

He didn't have it in him to ask her what she meant.

"Can you tell them? Tell them that I- …can you tell-? You will, won't you?" She paused, coughing.

"Of course," he murmured, "I'll tell 'em." Trying to remember everything he'd learned from Merle about lyin' as she seemed to look right at him – right _through_ him as he gently squeezed her hand. Her skin was fragile and dry under his, and for a split second, he swore she knew.

His chest squeezed painfully when he looked up, unable to avoid the bird's eyes as she stared back at him. Her face a muddled mosaic of twisted shadows and tears as a series of emotions he couldn't find it in him to name flickered across her face. But for some reason, it steadied him – gave him purpose.

He knew what he had to do.

His fingers flirted with the hilt of his buck knife as the puppet choked, breathing unsteadily now as her sticky blond curls fell across her face, coughing up red in violent spasms – drowning from the inside out as her limbs twitched. Seizing weakly as the air grew rich with the musk of old blood and fresh urine.

He tucked her hair behind her ears, pretending not to notice the way she leaned into his touch, instinctively seeking him out as he untangled a thatch of hair from her earring. A jumbled mess of gleaming platinum and red-slicked blond as he cleared his throat – _stalling._

_In for a penny…_

He loomed over her as he slowly unsheathed the knife. He played with the edge, as if to test its sharpness as he kept his eyes on her face. Her expression was pleading, tired. The blade glinted in the dying light as he leaned down and whispered in her ear. His lips almost brushed against her temples as he ducked his head and waited.

The seconds slid by. But he didn't move. Not even when Carol shifted uncertainly from the other side of the car. This wasn't about her. He counted down from a thousand, idly listening to the liquidy rasp of the woman's breathing. Her heartbeat was weak – barely there – almost as if she were hanging onto life by her fingertips, five seconds away from falling.

It wasn't until her heartbeat finally settled underneath his hands that the puppet nodded. Her wedding band glinting, burnished gold to go with his silver as she squeezed his hand. She closed her eyes – he could have wept in gratitude.

He waited until the bird turned away, idly looking off in the direction of home – an excuse to discreetly wipe at her tear-stained cheeks, before he quietly severed the puppet from her last string.

The bird didn't want to know. She didn't have to know.

It was easy enough to play it off, to slump into himself and shake his head when she turned around and realized that the puppet wasn't breathing. She didn't say anything. Not how or when. She wanted to believe it, _him._

There was an apology in the bird's eyes as he pulled the jacket up over the woman's face before he collected his crossbow and made to leave. He didn't ask why. He couldn't.

They were halfway down the road before he stopped and turned back. His spine was stiff backed and determined as she trailed after him, watching him duck back around the ruined car and open the passenger side, trying to work around the splintered piece of metal as the frame groaned, whinging under his weight. He doubled over the woman's prone form, reaching for something just out of sight.

He came back a few moments later with a pair of running shoes, all hanging white laces and gentle blood splatter as he offered them to her.

"Here, these look about your size."

The expression on her face was a rictus of horror and grief, but he didn't have time to coddle her. He just shoved the shoes into her chest and stalked past her. There was a question poised on the edge of her lips, he could feel it, feel it in the same way he could feel her eyes boring into his back. But she remained silent.

_Thank Christ._

It took a long time for the scent of blood and Chanel number five to fade from his skin, almost the same length of time that it took for her to stop feeling guilty about wearing a dead woman's shoes. Because even he was unable to miss the delicate little sighs of relief that eventually rose up as she kept pace behind him.

He might have smiled. Her relief and pleasure were as infectious as her footsteps were light as she trotted through the underbrush at his side - her body moving with a grace that had been noticeably absent when she'd been confined to her heels.

At least _someone_ was happy.


	7. Chapter 7

It was a long time before either one of them spoke, long enough for the road to start dipping downwards, angling south in a gradual incline that indicated that they were finally nearing the lakefront. They finished the jerky not long after that, counting their chickens before they hatched, he supposed – but by that point he was too hungry to care. Or perhaps more pointedly, too hungry to refuse the bird when she insisted that he take the last piece. Fixing him a look he was only too happy to avoid when he finally snatched it from her fingers. Women.

He chewed it slowly, determined to make it last.

They passed a few houses, cabins mostly. There were a smattering of vacation homes, the ones with the fake wood paneling and the perfectly manicured front lawns - likely some city-slicker's idea of 'getting in tune with nature' or some shit. Most had gaping front doors and broken windows, smashed in roofs and off-color webs that shrouded the walls in muted halos of sticky white. But others, nothing, with the odd home standing seemingly untouched, welcoming. But they didn't risk it, not even when the canteen ran dry.

Appearances weren't just deceiving, they were often deadly.

But even he had to admit that he was starting to get desperate. Night had fallen and they were caught in the open – pausing at three way intersections and awkward forks in the road, using the bird's tiny, purse-sized flashlight to read the street signs. He lost track of how many times he'd asked her if she recognized anything - homes, roads, landmarks - but she just shook her head. Frustration and desperation clouded her gaze as her cell beeped discouragingly, the sound oddly muffled in the surrounding mist.

"Why do you hunt?" she asked eventually. Breaking the tension as night settled around them, making it impossible to see more than a few inches ahead as the bird's flashlight eventually spluttered – fading in and out a handful of times before dying completely.

He couldn't see the moon. Everything was shrouded, close.

The question took him by surprise, but more because of her interest than the question itself. He wasn't used to people actually giving a shit. He was used to people using him up, wearing him down and then discarding him afterwards, like a used rubber - like something that was not worth keeping.

But she didn't. Not yet anyway.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she walked beside him, keeping pace with him easily now – despite her exhaustion, her expression tense but encouraging as her fingers twisted around the straps of her purse. Probably a nervous habit.

She was a tough little thing, he'd give her that.

A dozen answers leapt readily to mind, all perfectly accurate and believable in their own right. To eat, for the challenge, the sport, because it was what he did – what a Dixon did, because it was none of her god damn business, and so on. But he surprised himself by answering her honestly.

"To feel alive," he replied. Deliberately not looking back as she paused, her steps turning hesitant for a split second before she fell back into place beside him – back into the rhythm, the soothing grate of shoe soles meeting the pavement as her expression turned thoughtful.

He'd surprised her, he could tell that much right away. He wasn't sure why, but it made him want to continue. It made him want to make her understand. Carefully playing around with the notion that he actually gave a flying crap what she thought of him before he tossed it - unwilling to examine it any further as he shook his head and soldiered on. After all, he'd come this far, there didn't seem much harm in continuing.

"I've spent most of my life in the woods, back in Georgia," he explained. "Learning to make it out here, out in the wild was probably the only useful thing Merle ever taught me," he grunted, too used to the truth of it for the words to sting.

"I ain't like you, don't wanna be either. The city, people, it's all fake, stifling - synthetic. Out here you get everything at face value. No lies, no hidden costs or upfront fees. It's natural, real – simple. It ain't kind any more than it is inherently evil or naturally apathetic. It just is. But it provides for you if you provide for it. A man don't need anything more outta life than that."

"We all have wildness in us. I'm just honest about letting it out," he finished, pausing for a moment as something rustled in the brush off to their left. It could be a deer, something normal – harmless. But then again, when had they ever been that lucky?

She appeared to think about it, teeth tugging at her lower lip before the corners tilted upwards. Her expression was cheeky and surprisingly daring as she turned around and blithely replied, "Huh, well, I knit."

For the first time in a long time, he laughed until he thought he was going to be sick. His voice was raspy and awkward - unused, like it had been decades since the last time he'd truly laughed.

It was nearly twilight by the time she grabbed his arm, so excited he actually forgot to flinch. Her eyes glinted as she whispered, her expression alive with a filtering by-play of shadows that reflected in the low light. So close in his ear that he could feel the warmth of her breath as she bounded forward.

"That's my neighbor's house!"

And soon enough they rounded on the place from behind, just like he'd promised. It was a nice enough place, a fixer upper with a sagging back porch and clogged gutters. It was homey though, respectable.

Her breath caught in her throat when the house came into view. He half expected her to bolt, to race ahead like she had on the road only a few hours before. But she didn't. Instead she crowded close, the action unconscious and instinctive as he advanced, crossbow up. He could practically taste her fear. Fear of what they would find inside, fear of what they wouldn't.

The bird turned the key in the lock, both of them wincing when it opened grudgingly, all squeaking hinges and rusty springs.

It was a simple enough nest, decent. It was made in the ranch style with two floors, a wraparound deck and a root cellar. But it reeked of compromise, of a hasty decision and forced settlement. It was wrong, wrong for her, right down to the very foundations. Hell, even the furniture didn't fit, all smooth and streamlined, at odds with the more rustic atmosphere with the faded hardwood and flowered wallpaper. It was like comparing a stallion to a draft horse, it just didn't fit. Even the appliances looked out of place. Hell, it seemed like everything she owned came out of one of those fancy-ass magazines you see at the tills at the grocery store. Trying and failing to fit together with the faded, honey-pearl walls and the glitter-flecked ceiling that was about thirty years out of date.

Perhaps the metaphor of a bird was more accurate than he'd realized, because by the look if it, she was a bird that had been caught in the act of spreading her wings.

He scanned the halls, ignoring her as she crowded behind him. The place looked safe enough, at least for now. The bird hadn't been lying when she'd said she'd only just moved in, the first floor was basically a sea of boxes, crumpled newspaper and stray packing peanuts. Everywhere he looked there were framed photos, knick-knacks and art propped up against the walls, with towers of boxes labeled 'kitchen' and 'pantry' having been inexplicably stacked in the mud room, living room, and front entrance rather than where they should have been.

It was a mess, but a surprisingly organized one.

He took it in with a critical eye. The house looked untouched. The doors and windows were all intact. No webs. No damage. But it was too early to say they were in the clear.

"Wanda? Victor?..." she hissed, her voice hardly above a whisper as he put a finger to his lips as they paused. Listening.

It wasn't until a full minute had passed that he motioned for her to go ahead.

He followed her through a maze of halls, stepping over unpacked boxes and flattened bubble wrap. He paused, letting his eyes flicker over a mess of toys and upturned boxes in the room across from the kitchen, styrofoam and packing plastic were strewn across the den as if someone had been caught in the middle of unpacking and suddenly dropped everything.

"Wanda? Baby, its mommy, where are you sweetheart?"

It didn't take him long to suss out that maybe he wasn't the only one who had been running. There was no sign of a husband, a male, or anyone else save for the three of them. All the pictures were of the bird and her chicks. There were no empty beer cans, worn ball caps or scuffed size ten sneakers. Couple all that together with a sudden move and it all started to make sense.

The bird was smarter than he gave her credit for.

Whoever he was, the man hadn't deserved her – them. You'd have to be a fool to give all this up - a little woman, a family, the apple pie life? Wasn't that what every man wanted? Idiots and assholes not withstanding.

They made their way up the stairs cautiously, chewing on the inside of his cheek when the house shifted, settling as the grandfather clock, still partially wrapped in thin, packing paper downstairs chimed out the hour. 2am.

He pushed past her when they reached the second floor, wincing when his foot caught on a loose floorboard, the high pitched creak echoing loudly in the quiet. _Damnit._ He kept her behind him. A steady presence at his back as he edged around the landing, crouching slightly as the cluttered hallway of the floor above slowly became visible.

A muffled thump issued from somewhere above their heads, too loud, too concentrated to be explained away as the house shifting or a sound floating in from the outside. The bird had her mouth open to call out, but he shook his head. His fist snapping up in a sharp negative as something tickled on the edge of his senses.

His bow came up, finger tight on the trigger. They weren't alone.

He caught her eye in the gloom, face alive with the conflicting expressions of fear and hope "Attic?" He mouthed. She nodded.

They waited. The silence stretched. Nothing. Then-

"…Mommy?"


	8. Chapter 8

He hung back as the kids, a tangle of dirty t-shirts, thin little limbs and tear-streaked faces, all but tumbled out of the crawl space. The boy, dark haired and sharp, was the first one out, scrambling down the ladder and straight into his mother's arms - whereas the girl, dirty blond and cautious, followed in his wake, burying her face into the bird's jacket with a relieved sound.

It wasn't long before the both of them were staring at him distrustfully. Their gazes were bold now that they were safely tucked under their mother's wing. He stared back, shouldering his crossbow in a smooth motion as he crossed the hall, peering out one of the upper windows looking for any sign of movement from outside.

_Let 'em look._

"Mommy, who is that man?" It was the boy that said it, Victor, he thought. And in spite himself, the corners of his lips twitched, trying to rationalize such a serious name for a face that young. Wanda and Victor – it sounded like something off of a bad soap opera on TV. Like something someone's meddling maiden aunt had had a hand in on baptism day.

Once the little brats hit high school the other kids were going to eat them alive.

But instead of looking up, instead of turning away from the window and interjecting with his own name, he let the bird struggle. He said nothing when her mouth opened then closed, awkward without his intervention. But eventually she managed, sending him an irritated look, something that said 'you are doing this on purpose just to make my life difficult' and 'get over yourself' all at the same time before she answered.

_Sassy little bird._

"This man found me on the road. He saved me. He helped me get back to you," she answered. "I wouldn't have made it without him," she finished, smile going warm as the muscles between his shoulders itched.

"Is he going to stay?" the girl asked, only to be interrupted by her brother as he eagerly jumped in, "is he going to fight the monsters, Mommy? Did he kill any of the-"

"I don't know baby, we only just got here. We'll have to see," she answered, her expression both amused and apologetic as she squeezed their shoulders, pressing kisses into their hair as they took him in – wide eyed and ridiculously trusting.

The skin between his shoulders _burned_. There was something discomforting about being on the outside when faced with the eyes of children. Something that reminded him of the hours he'd spent hiding behind his grandma's faded old couch, breathing in the scent of Camel lights and cat as he listened to the people come and go. Crying – making noise – eating finger food and saying nice things about his Mama. They'd spoken in hushed whispers, despite the fact that no one had known he was listening, wondering aloud about what kind of husband didn't show up to his wife's wake – what kind of father would simply dropped off his children at their mother in law's and up and left town.

He'd heard snatches of things a child should have to never hear about their parents, about how there hadn't been enough of her left to fill the urn, or that his Papa, who was currently drinking his way through half the southwest, didn't even so much as call when the day of her funeral had come and gone.

"We can't stay long," he finally bit out, his tone earning him all three of their stares, nearly identical expressions of worry and confusion.

"I thought we'd be able to stay, to wait it out and-" the bird began, but he cut her off.

"It's been nearly three days, do you hear the cavalry?" he snorted, waving a hand around them as if to encompass the entire town. The action dismissive and almost unbelieving considering what they'd seen in the last twelve hours.

"Mommy, I don't want to leave," the girl piped up, tugging on her mother's sleeve as she buried her face into the bird's jacket, "It's scary outside."

_The fledgling had a point._

The bird's forehead creased, looking from him to her chicks, clearly weighing her options. But he knew better. Sure, the house _seemed safe enough_ – for now. But that was the kicker, it wasn't a sure thing. It was a death-trap waiting to happen and if she thought he was going to wait around and play house, she had a whole other thing comin'.

"The police will come, right Mom? With the soldiers and tanks like on TV?" the boy piped up, looking positively gleeful about the prospect as he tugged on her arm, tired eyes suddenly alive with excitement.

"It's either go or die, kid." he grated, looking down at the leggy little thing through his fringe as the boy stared up at him, wide eyed, "Even if the military _had_ stuck around, we don't have much of a choice. We're sittin' ducks."

He realized he'd screwed up about five seconds before it actually happened, witnessing the dominoes toppling in real time as the kid's chin suddenly quivered, lower lip trembling like the calm before the storm as both of them just started _bawling._

_Fuckin' super._

The bird gave him the stink eye and sent him packing. Her expression alone was more than enough to light a fire under his ass as he took the stairs two at a time. He slowed his walk to a more dignified pace when he was out of earshot and headed off in the direction of the kitchen, figuring that since the bird had already eaten him out of house and home, the least he could do was return the favor.


	9. Chapter 9

She caught up with him halfway through a Tupperware container of leftover stew. It smelled a little off but it had been the only decent thing in there, rabbit food notwithstanding. Either way, he'd had worse.

She approached him carefully. Not cautious but conscious, conscious of the fact that the dynamics had changed. He'd done what he'd said he'd do, he'd gotten her home, reunited her with her chicks. He didn't owe her anything else, if he ever had in the first place, and she knew it.

Still, the question of 'now what?' hung between them, heavy and oppressive. He watched her from behind the fan of his lashes, searching her face for – _hell, he didn't even know. He had no idea what he was doing._ He wasn't used to this, to _people_. People like _her_.

But if she was feeling the tension she didn't say a word. She just slid into the booth across from him, and with more ease than he was strictly comfortable, picked up a fork, nudged the container into the center of the table and dug in with relish.

They ate in silence.

"Where are the kids?" he finally asked, sloppy and rude, as he spoke in mid-chew, forgetting to feel self-conscious as the sound of little feet racing around on the floor above echoed in the relative silence.

"Upstairs, getting cleaned up," she hummed. "They'd been hiding up there since the beginning of this whole mess. A few minutes after the mist rolled in they heard a crash and screams from the neighbor's house. They shut themselves up in the attic pretty quick after that, watched the whole thing from the side window," she replied with a frown, picking out a piece of gravy-coated potato and popping it into her mouth with a troubled look.

He paused, considering. "Not the neighbor with the truck?"

"What? Oh no, _god_ no!" she cut in, shaking her head emphatically. "He isn't even here; this is just his summer home. Apparently he only comes up to the lake for a couple months a year," she explained.

"Loaded?" he snorted, the word coming out as half a question and half an insult as he stabbed his fork into the center of the dish, spearing a piece of pork with an irritated air.

"Must be, I sure wish I could afford half the stuff he seems to," the bird replied. "He showed me around the house a few days after we moved in, he keeps the truck here permanently and takes a cab from the airport."

"Lucky for us," he replied, not realizing the full implications of his response until the woman straightened in her seat. Her expression was alert and quietly hopeful as she paused in mid-bite, chewing slowly as she watched him lean backwards, maintaining the distance between them, at least in a small way before he made to speak.

_The cat was out of the bag anyway._

"Tell them to go pack a bag, you too. Only what we need, mind. Only as much as you can carry if things go south," he allowed, punctuating the words with a few aggressive stabs of his fork, hunting around in the container for another cube of pork.

"You're sticking around then?" she asked, more of a statement then a question by now, but he let it slide. The implication of ' _for now_ ' hung over their heads, but neither of them chose to acknowledge it. They didn't have too.

"Said I would, didn't I?" he grunted, shifting a bit as a smile spread across her face, going all the way to her eyes as something playful reflected back at him. He felt his cheeks heat.

_Christ, he was in over his head._

"Besides," he began after a moment, uncharacteristically feeling the need to elaborate – anything to ease them out of the moment and back into the present. "I figure trying for this military camp of yours is as good a bet as any. Either way, we can't stay here."

"I agree, as much as I wish I didn't," she replied, letting the moment rest for a few beats before she answered, clearly still considering her options. "I don't fancy heading back out there, especially with the kids," she continued, a small shudder quivering across the length of her shoulders before tapering off, seeming to collect herself somewhat as she met his gaze.

_Brave bird._

"We are going to need supplies if we're planning on gettin' very far. If the state of the fridge and the pantry is anything to go by we are going to have to make a pit stop," he pointed out.

"My neighbor might have some non-perishables in his cupboards. I honestly don't know. We'll figure something out," she assured.

He just snorted.

"Do you have any tools? Anything that can be used as a weapon?" he asked, snatching a couple of crackers right from the pack before tossing the rest into the open backpack at his feet. They were going to need supplies, enough for a couple of days at least.

"I think I have a hammer around here someplace-" she began, gesturing off into the messy chaos that was her living room with a frustrated expression. "That'll have to do," he butted in, not content to wait as she listed off everything under the god damned sun.

_He had plans to make._

"Get the kids ready. We'll want to leave at first light," he added, this time a bit more gently. He surprised himself with the realization that he actually gave a damn before he shook his head, tucking that troublesome piece of information off in the back of his mind to dispose of later.

_He didn't need to dwell on that kind of shit._

He slid off the bench, feet aching as he rose, tossing his fork off in the direction of the sink as he snagged the shoulder strap of his crossbow between his thumb and forefinger and gestured off in the direction of the living room.

"I'm crashing on the couch. Get some sleep yourself, its gunna be long day tomorrow."

"You're sleeping?! _Now_?" she trilled, looking almost scandalized as the minor stampede from upstairs not so coincidentally fell silent. His lips quirked in spite of himself as the banister on the top of the stairs creaked, both chicks clearly eavesdropping now.

"Lady, I haven't slept in two days. I ain't gonna be any use to either one of us if I don't get some shut eye," he growled, realizing halfway through that his tone was nowhere near as firm as he'd intended.

_What was it about this broad that made him so-_

He left the room without waiting for her reply, only vaguely listening as she got up and put the stew back in the fridge, more out of habit than anything else, before heading upstairs. The chicks scattered, fooling no one as they skittered back to their respective rooms.

He didn't smile, but it was a near thing.

It wasn't long before the uproar from upstairs began in full swing. Something about clean shirts and school backpacks, he didn't quite catch it all. He was too busy picking his way through the maze of boxes and packing paper, using one of the candles they'd lit to navigate around in the dark.

He tossed a couple of boxes off the couch to make room, all but _sinking_ into the plush, fake leather cushions with a grateful sigh. _Christ, he was beat_. He crossed his arms underneath his head, staring at the ceiling, listening as the bird's soft voice filtered through the vents above his head.

And not for the first time, he thought about leaving.

It wouldn't be hard; he could just slip away into the night with them being none the wiser. He didn't owe them anything after all. He was better off on his own, without a gravy train of baggage. The bird had been bad enough; imagine carting two kids through that mess.

He frowned into the armrest, thoughts roiling, _uneasy_. He'd always been better off by himself, no Merle, no Pa, just him and the open sky. He liked his life uncomplicated, thank you _very_ fuckin' much. And this lot, the bird and her chicks, were about as complicated as life could get.

But perhaps being alone wasn't enough anymore. Perhaps-

He snorted, forcing the thoughts out of his mind as he rolled over, mashing one of the pillows underneath his head as he closed his eyes, resolute. _He couldn't afford to get distracted, not now._

He didn't know how he felt about it when he dug his face into the crease between the armrest and the cushion and realized that the couch smelled like her. Ignoring the fact that some part of him, however distance, realized it was actually soothing. …In a fucked up, oedipal sort of way – or perhaps just in a plain old sexual attraction sort of way – which he was definitely not thinking about either, by the way.

But again, he ignored it and for the first time since his mother passed, he dreamt.

_They were red._


	10. Chapter 10

He jerked awake, hand curling around the hilt of his knife as he tensed, uncertain of what had woken him. The room was dark. Not pitch black, but enough to make the shadows of nearby boxes threatening. Dawn was reflecting off the mist through the gaps in the curtains, filtering in through the blinds until the hazy, off-light lost the warmth of the sun – seeping in through the cracks like the dredges of someone's nightmare. Slow but certain.

He listened, counting out the seconds between breaths before he realized his concerns were unfounded. There was nothing there, not unless you counted the mist and whatever the fuck was lurking inside it.  _Musta' been a dream…_

He slumped back against the cushions, squirming deeper into the headrest as he let go of an irritated sigh. He acclimated slowly, processing the transition from sleep to wakefulness before he realized what it was. There was a weight on his shoulders, soft, warm and unthreatening. Something that hadn't been there when he'd turned in.

His fingers curled around the edges of the thin blanket. He blinked, inhaling on reflex as the scent of her,  _the bird_ , filtered in.  _How the hell had this gotten here? He hadn't-_

It was the soft sound that finally alerted him, trickling through the silence as his thumb scraped across the edge of his blade,  _waiting_. The sound was more gentle than a snore, but too loud to be chalked up as heavy breathing. He chanced a look, unsure, and there they were, the bird and her chicks. They were propped up against the couch, sprawled out across the floor by his feet, not two centimeters away from his beat up mudders.

He blinked; watching as three chests rose and fell in the low light.  _Peaceful._ His hands curled into tight fists, unsure of how to process it as the smallest one, the boy, made a quiet sound, rubbing his face into the bird's sleeve before he quieted.

An odd feeling rose as he looked down at them. It weighed in his throat, sinking down to the very heart of him the longer he watched. He couldn't think. Hell, he could barely  _breathe_. They were so close he swore he could feel the heat of them. They could have been anywhere. In bed,  _comfortable_ , but they'd chosen this, _him_.

_Why?_

Honestly, he didn't know  _what_ to think, or even _feel_  for that matter. Angry? Protective? Satisfied? Annoyed? They  _all_  sounded too god damn intimate. It didn't seem right to put a label on it, to define it when everything that'd happened since he'd found her on that road seemed one horror movie shy of a monster marathon on TV.

He rubbed his eyes.  _It was too fucking early to be dealing with this sort of shit._

He got up quietly, picking his way through a minefield of plastic bags, packing peanuts and splayed limbs, making a lop-sided circuit around the main floor before he deemed it safe enough to take a piss.

He peered out the tiny bathroom window as he aimed and let loose, a small sigh of relief escaping him as the stream plinked unevenly across the worn porcelain. Eventually his gaze strayed from the whiteout to the various knickknacks strewn across the countertop. The room, like everywhere else, was a mish-mash of plastic wrappers and half empty boxes. The edges around the sink and tub were littered with toys, a jumble of action figures and handheld games that had long run out of batteries.

There was a bottle of perfume perched on the top of the medicine cabinet, safely out of reach, but a handful of hairpins jammed halfway down the sink. Almost as if someone had made an effort to keep things at an arm's reach, but had failed in the follow through.

It practically  _screamed_ domesticity. He grunted, tucking himself back into his jeans as he let the lid  _whoosh_ closed – mind turning tricks as he considered what Merle would have to say about a lid that shuts _itself_  rather than slams.  _Christ, he was out of touch._

Annoyance rose, but with only a shadow of its former ire as the candle light flickered off the walls, unsure of what to think when only comfort and irritation – or a bastardized version of the two – thrummed through him at the sight of the worn hair elastics and dirty tissues that'd missed the garbage can at his feet.

He curled his lip, but his heart really wasn't in it.

Instead, he left dirty boot prints across the linoleum and decided to call it even.


	11. Chapter 11

He wandered around the house at random, knowing from experience that he wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep anytime soon. Instead, he used the time to think, to decompress, relishing the silence as he ghosted quietly through the main floor. He kept the bird in sight, but maintained the distance. He felt more in control that way, more grounded.

He snooped; he was fine with admitting it. After all, who could blame him? He didn't know shit about this woman. She could be fuckin' anybody. It only made sense to be cautious, to want to fill in some of the blanks. A smile and a pretty face didn't mean jack as far as he was concerned. Besides, he wasn't about to admit he felt like he was on uneven ground with her - like he didn't quite have a handle on her. She didn't fit and for him, that was  _beyond_ frustrating.

He wasn't used to it, to  _not_  knowing.

He didn't like it.

But what he found only served to confirm what he'd already suspected. She'd moved in a rush, it'd been unplanned and hap-hazard. The boxes had a company logo on them, lending weight to the suspicion that everything had been wrapped and packed professionally. That the bird had already been long gone by the time the movers showed up. He found a gas receipt for a pay-at-the-pump in New Jersey and another for a bottle of water and some kid's gravol at a Wal-Mart the next state over.

But other than that?  _Nothin'._

There were no red flags, nothing to indicate she wasn't exactly who she claimed to be. No dirty laundry, no shady-ass mementos or fucked up modern art that screamed gold digger or your everyday psychopath. The liquor cabinet was empty. Even the medicine cabinet in the master was stocked with multi-vitamins and kid's junk, with nothing worse than an expired bottle of anti-anxiety pills that haunted the farthest reaches of the highest shelf. The bottle was half-empty.

He wasn't sure what to make of it. He wasn't used to people like this, _decent_  people. He was far too jaded to take people at face value. It'd taken more than a few lessons, but eventually he'd come to realize that people were more likely to hide their true nature behind a smile and a kind word than they would a sneer or a slap. Everyone had a vice, a weakness. He'd learned that shit through example.

_And yet..._

There were four backpacks lined up neatly beside the front door. He raised a brow as he dropped down on his haunches, unzipping one at random. They'd done exactly as he'd asked save for the extra backpack. The kid's packs had two changes of clothes, a toy, and a zip lock of granola bars and crackers. He was about to unzip the last pack when a soft voice filtered into the hush. So unexpected, so close behind him he had to stop himself from lashing out.

"A few of Ed's shirts got mixed up in the packing," she offered, bleary-eyed and rumpled. "In case you wanted a change…" she trailed off awkwardly when he straightened, towering over her in way that ended up making both of them uncomfortable.

He observed her quietly as he rose. His knees cracked, the  _crick-crick-snap_ of joints settling, as their breaths, harsh despite the normalcy of the moment, rose up like battle cries in the muted air.

He blinked. Unsure, as the words sunk in, if she was just being considerate or if this was her shrewd way of telling him he stank.  _Either way, she was probably right._  He took the hint and changed. He had to admit he was pretty ripe, even by his standards.

He spared a look in the mirror as he shrugged into the black wife-beater and a blue checkered button up. His nose wrinkled as the sleeves flapped uselessly, dragging halfway down his knuckles. Her old man had been nearly a size and a half too large – taller too. _Stocky_.

He snorted as he took in his reflection. Getting flashes of a childhood spent wearing Merle's cast offs before he baulked. He tore the sleeves clear off, leaving them where they fell, promising himself that the moment he got back to his flat he'd burn the lot. He didn't take people's castoffs. Not anymore.

Carol just nodded, giving him a once over when he emerged. Her blue eyes heated.

"You wear them far better than he ever did."

He told himself he was imagining it. That he was imagining that look, that  _spark._  Imagining the warmth coiling in his gut as she watched him from around a stack of boxes –  _kitchen, den, attic -_  but privately, he knew better.

She followed him into the kitchen, away from the sleeping chicks.  _Let 'em sleep. They were going to need it. They'd be on the road soon enough._ He retreated to the table, covering his discomfort by inspecting the wires of his crossbow. He double checked the tension as she crossed over to one of the cupboards, moving back and forth with little bits of food, a bag of dried cranberries, a couple of crackers, clearly trying to make herself useful as her pacing started to get on his nerves.

He tensed every time she strayed too close.

He watched her, inscrutable, from behind the fan of his lashes as he oiled the gears. She was nervous.  _Afraid_. Part of him wanted to seize on it. Mock her for it. To drag her through the truth of it like a boot sole slicking through a pile of dog shit. But he didn't.

He knew what lurked in the mist. He'd  _seen_  it, same as her. And in his opinion, as much as the idea galled him, that fear was fucking  _justified_. But it wasn't just that. She was afraid because she was taking her chicks out there – into the mist. She knew they couldn't stay here, but still was afraid to take that step. Not when they were sitting pretty with four square walls and a solid roof over their heads.

But life didn't work like that. The truth was they were sittin' ducks. A roof and four walls meant shit to a creature as tall as an aircraft carrier and three times as wide. And those spider things? In this house? Well, best not mention that. They had to keep moving. Stay ahead of the worst of it and try to find some place the Mist hadn't spread to, some place  _safe._

It wasn't until she sighed, closing the cupboard with a cringe-worthy slam that he finally turned around.  _She was going to get them killed before they'd even fuckin' started._

"You any good with a weapon?" he asked, tone biting but firm, giving her the stink eye until she had the good grace to look sheepish. She wandered over, sitting opposite to him as she pushed the barrel of his rifle off to the side, cautious and clearly uncomfortable at its closeness.

He paused, considering his options, deciding it was worth a try.  _After all, if she had something to hold onto, something visceral, maybe she wouldn't spend the entire trip riding his ass._

"Depends what you mean," she replied, hesitating visibly when he unclipped the Glock, a standard, easy to use handgun, from his belt and tossed it onto the table along with the holster. It wasn't his gun. He'd yanked it from a corpse hanging upside down in the trees, half smothered in spider-silk and partially congealed blood.  _He hadn't had a chance to clean it._

"Ever fired one of these?" he asked, pulling out his polishing cloth and a tube of cleaning oil as he waited for her reply.

"Once," she replied, deadpan. Her expression however, was not so ordered. She looked away, gaze on some distant point across the room, refusing to even so much as look at the weapon that stood between them. He recognized the signs. She was closing off. Either he'd rattled her already or he'd dredged up some bad memories – maybe both. He grunted, dismissing the thought.

_Well tough shit. He didn't have time to fuckin' babysit her._

Still, he raised a brow, surprised in spite of himself as she shifted uncomfortably, fingers clasped tightly in her lap, smile downturned and sharp. And for once, it was  _her_ that wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Recently?"

"Yes," she returned, stronger now, a bit of an unspoken challenge lingering in the back of her eyes, something that reminded him of that good old fashioned Georgian gumption that southern girls seemed to have in spades. It was all there, in the curve of her brow and the arc of her hip as she straightened in her seat.  _Why, think I can't?_

"And did you hit what you were aiming at?" He spared her a look as he began dismantling the handgun, inspecting each piece carefully before moving onto the next. The gun had been well taken care of. That was something at least.

"…More or less," she replied, lips quirking with something that wasn't a smile, perhaps closer to a grimace - a dark sort of mirth that caught his attention more than the words themselves. He squashed down the spark of curiosity that rose up when her expression hardened.

_Perhaps not so innocent after all._

A mangled sort of pride rose up in his throat as he took her in. Anyone else would have probably asked, pressed for more at the very least. But he didn't. He didn't have to.  _Birds of a feather and all that._ But when she finally met his gaze, he swallowed it down. Unable to mask his thoughts as he turned away, shoving the Glock towards her with a growl. There was no heat behind it, but she nodded gravely all the same.

"Keep the safety on until you're sure," he rasped, pocketing the cloth and oil roughly before rising. "I don't think getting shot in the ass would be good for  _either_ of our chances right about now."

A shadow of a smile flittered across her face as she reached out. She ran a hand down the stock - learning the feel of it as he watched from across the room.

He had to force himself not to return it.


	12. Chapter 12

The chicks were still sleeping when he figured it was light enough to venture outside. He craned his neck as he peered out the window, sinking down on his haunches by the sliding glass, trying to judge the distance between the back porch and the neighbour's house. They couldn't put this off any longer.

The distance wasn't the problem, nor was the other house - which seemed to be built solidly enough. It was host to one of those pretentious, p-shaped driveways and a manicured front lawn. It was more the fact that there was nothing but sloping green grass and stunted shrubbery in between them. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to take cover. It was too exposed.

His shoulders hunched, muscles tensing under the skin. It wasn't like they had a lot of options, but  _shit_. Something in him rankled at the choice. If he'd been alone, if he hadn't decided to toss in his lot with the flightless-wonder and her two rug-rats, he wouldn't be in this god damned mess. He would have kept going, headed towards the state line, somewhere built up, populated, in the hopes that they'd have way to combat this thing.

_Shoulda, woulda, coulda._

And if he tried to ignore the other, far quieter voice that argued that if he hadn't found the bird, he might not have made it at all, that was purely  _his_ business. Because really, who in their right mind let their conscience get snippy?

She bit her lip, arms crossed, fingers feathering down her ribs as she gave him space. She watched as he unlocked the sliding glass door, sticking a couple of fingers out to test the direction – it was calm out -  _still_. They weren't downwind, so under normal circumstances that meant they were even more at a disadvantage. But really, with all this 'invasion from Mars' bullcrap, he figured it was anyone's best guess.

"What do you need me to do?"

It was an innocuous enough statement, something that could be easily filed away and ignored. But that was just the surface. It was the stuff underneath, the gushy, complicated bits that actually mattered. Because it meant  _more_ , it meant it wasn't just  _him_  anymore, it was  _them._ It meant they were in this _together_.

Talk about a mind fuck. Merle would have had his balls two minutes after he'd fuckin' found her – let alone all this.

Part of him wanted to comment on it, tease it out and extend the moment. But it felt out of character – or perhaps just different. It felt like dull scissors hacking through that thick plastic packaging they put on the expensive shit in the general store. It felt…new _. Untested._

"Get the kids ready," he replied, ducking his head as he shoved the rest of his crap into his pack. "The place looks safe enough but I might be coming back in a hurry. Make sure you're ready to leave the moment you see me heading back. I'll get the truck and bring it around to the front. But if I don't-"

"We'll figure something out," she broke in, speaking over him in a fit of nerves, forcing determination into her tone as if by sheer will she could make it exactly that.

He shook his head. "If I don't make it back, head south. Stay off the main roads. Those things are smart. They've got nests strung up in the trees on either side of the blacktop. If they get you-"

"You'll be back."

Frustration rose up at her quick denial. Reality was a tough thing to stomach but if she wanted to survive, if she wanted to make it, she was going to have to face facts – preferably sooner rather than later.  _What if he didn't make it back? What was she gonna do then? Talk 'em to death?_

He opened his mouth, perhaps to say exactly that, but she spoke over him - firm. "The keys should be in the bowl by the stairs, on the other side of the garage," tone broaching no argument as she handed him his pack. Blue eyes soft but more determined than ever as color flushed high on her cheeks.

His mouth closed with a sullen snap.

_If she wanted to ignore reality that was fuckin' fine by him. What did he care, anyway?_

"Don't wait for me. If I get cut off, I won't be coming back the same way, head out the back, the same way we came in, keep the sun on your left shoulder if you can find it. Stay close to the road, but not on it. Find a car – something – anything – and just  _go_ ," he insisted, shrugging into the straps of his pack.

"We'll be fine," she assured, close at his heels as he eased the screen door open in increments, wincing as the  _pop-pop-ping_ of rusted hinges carried in the hush, "be careful."

He was about to turn away, fingers tangling in the straps, easing off the safety on his crossbow, when she suddenly rounded on him. Her fingers dug into his shoulder blade, startling him, catching him so off-guard that he forgot to flinch.

"You still haven't told me your name!" she reminded, chiding but with enough emotion haunting the backdrop that it made him feel like all kinds of an asshole. Because he hadn't. He'd kept her hanging since that moment on the road, holding back on purpose when she'd tried to introduce him to her chicks. It seemed so stupid now, so petty.

She was so close he could feel the warm of her breath, chill against his sweaty skin. It bled down through the center of him as she leaned in, all feather-red hair and watery-blue eyes. He swore he'd never stood so still in his entire fuckin' life.

Her lips were parted, just a few millimetres more than was strictly decent, ill-fitting to what lay between them. Or rather, what _didn't_. It was strangely… _intimate._ Part of him baulked at it on sheer principal, the other on experience. He didn't fuckin' know her.

But hell, he was self-aware enough to know that regardless of all the shit, he realized he actually  _wanted to._

_And really, ain't that just a bitch?_

"Daryl. My name's Daryl," he grunted, forcing himself to meet her eyes, bloodshot blue and shimmering, for a handful of beats before he turned, whirling, shouldering his pack and hefting his bow as he swung himself off the deck.

The look in her blue eyes haunted him long after the mist swallowed her.


	13. Chapter 13

The mist was just as inscrutable as it had been for the last few days. But still it rankled him, setting his hackles on edge when he realized how quickly the white had swallowed her.

It was well past dawn, but with the mist, everything was shrouded - half lit and pale. Only the strongest rays of sun seemed to permeate it, sending lancing arcs of burnished gold streaming through the wisps as he edged around the side of the house.

He allowed himself a smattering of beats as his eyes darted across the span of lawn that separated the two houses. Checking what he could see of the house and the garage from all angles, tweaking his game plan. Merle's voice was mocking in the back of his mind as a low chitter echoed from somewhere across the road. His hand twitched across the stock of his bow. But Merle just laughed.

_Man up, little D. Times a'wastin'._

_Didn't I teach ya nothing?_

_You gotta go while the goings good, little bro._

His feet ate up the space as he took the lawn at an easy, hunching lope. Ducking down, he tried to give off a low profile as his boots  _swish-swished_  through the wet grass. He choked on a breath – the sweetness of relief edged with a sobering side order of uncertainty when his back hit the brown stone.

His crossbow was already up, aimed back the way he'd come, sure one of those creatures would be hot on his ass after his dash across the open. But there was nothing. No crashing from the tree line, no excited chittering, not even the high pitched drone of wings.  _Nothing._  He sucked in a breath, one hand shooting out to center himself as the grating rasp of brick and mortar caught against his borrowed shirt.

If anything, that only made him feel worse.

He knew they were there, but he couldn't tell where.

He wasn't sure which option unsettled him more.

He punched in the code for the side door, wincing as the lock whirled, cycling through the numbers before it finally beeped and unlocked.  _Who the hell even needed a door that unlocked itself anyway? Was the douche who owned this joint too stupid to remember his god damned key or something?_

He shook the thought away as he slipped inside, ducking down on his haunches as he squinted, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. He leaned back against the door, easing it closed behind him. He cocked his head, ears straining.  _Play it safe. Be sure. Smart._

It looked untouched.

But that meant just about _dick_ as far as he as concerned.

The hollowness of the room reflected back, turning every breath, every creak of his boot sole into something he knew it wasn't. He was too damn old to let his imagination get the better of him, invasion from Mars bullshit aside.

_It was empty._

Still, he edged his bets. Deciding to play it safe, he took his time, giving the room a thorough once over before he unstuck himself from the concrete and skirted the sidelines.  _Truck. Keys. Supplies._ That was the plan.  _Keys. Where were the god damned keys?_

On the opposite side of the room, centered above the frame of a door that presumably led deeper into the house, the dead eye of a camera stared mournfully back at him. He followed the wiring along the seam of the wall until it disappeared into the ceiling. It looked like whoever owned the joint had jacked the place up – had all the fancy toys 'n shit.

He snorted, staring at the dark paneled screen beside the garage door opener. He scanned the labels – front door – kitchen – terrace – the list went on. His lip curled, fat lot of good all that did when the power was out.  _What was the point of having a home security system that all but wiped your ass for you, if it didn't have an emergency backup?_

He blinked, surprised when he realized it didn't end there. In fact, it took him a moment to realize what he was seeing. There were trucks  _and_ cars – hulking shapes that made his heart pound every time the light shifted - turning the shadows into monsters as he peered through the gloom.

The mist pressed up against the windows – choking and tight. But he ignored it, forcing himself to take in the rest of the room through the sight of his crossbow, on edge and trigger happy.  _Focus, Dixon._

He arched a brow as his eyes adjusted, whistling low in his throat as he took in the line of vehicles with an appreciative eye. This wasn't a garage; it was a fuckin' car show. Hell, the jackass's car crib was bigger than his entire god damn apartment.

He inched cautiously down the line. A Jaguar E-type. An Aston Martin. An obligatory mid-life crisis, bright orange Ferrari. A-  _jackpot!_

He bypassed the preppy red crotch-rocket and went straight for the bike. His fingers itched. It was a classic - a souped up old Harley, all leather seats and shiny silver chrome. And god, she was a beauty. He lifted up the dust cover with a reverent flick. Thinking fond thoughts of his old hog, the one he'd swapped for his pickup truck when he'd decided to make tracks from Georgia.

He spared a glance outside.  _Fresh start his ass_.

He smoothed a palm down the seat, testing the give of the leather, unsurprised to find it was the best of the best. He had to admit he was considering it. A bike was loud, sure, but it was quick, maneuverable. A road hog was more his style anyway. He'd been riding one since he'd been old enough to reach the pedals. Besides that, it seemed criminal to leave a work of art like this behind.

If it was just him and the bird, he'd be tempted. But with the chicks?

It was harder than he figured it oughta be to walk away. But he walked all the same. Leaving it and its leather-tassel handles glinting in a sliver of mist-choked light. Military would probably torch the whole house, if the creatures didn't destroy it first.  _Shame._

It took a bit of searching, but he found the truck, a big blue gas guzzler at the end of the line. He wondered if it was possible to be both approving and disgusted all at the same time. It was overlarge, sturdy, enough room for all of them and then some. It was the kind of truck that'd been built for back-roading and hauling big-ass boats 'n shit. Perfect for them but kind pathetic considering the jerkhole had probably only ever used it to ride into town when it was rainin'.

His hand curled around the handle the same moment the sound of giant pincers – hollow and sharp, clicked across the other side of the driveway, not ten meters outside the garage door.

_click-click-click-sccccccccraaaaape._

He was too pumped up to freeze, too committed. Instead, he eased the door open, thanking all the gods he didn't believe in that it was new and the hinges didn't screech. Because all he could think, all that was running through his mind was if he could see it –  _hear it_ – so could she. She'd be worried, hunkered down with the chicks. If they didn't keep quiet-

He frowned. Because really, when had he started caring about all this shit anyway?

He let the silence speak for him and peered carefully out the nearest window. It was that scorpion, praying mantis thing - 'ol lobster head - the one with the crab-walk, ten limbs and razor sharp claws that nightmares were made of.

_Thud-thud-scraaaaaaape._

Near as he could tell, it was the little brother to the elephant tentacle creature they'd faced down a few days before. Back when he'd rolled her into that ditch and gotten caught up in this whole mess in the first place.

He'd only come across ol' lobster head once, just in time to watch as it sliced through a car roof like it was nothing more than a tin can. The screams had been enough, but when it'd peeled off the roof and scooped out some dude and his wife, tossing them into the air and swallowing them with a flurry of snapping claws and whipping tentacles, even he had felt a trickle of fear.

_What was a person supposed to do when faced with something like that?!_

_Fight? Run? Piss yourself? A combination of all three?_

_Hell if he knew._

As it was, all he'd been able to do was watch. Watch, hunker down and hope it would just move on. Hope that when the screaming finally stopped he'd be able to forget the way the woman had flailed, brown hair billowing around her face, the whites of her eyes large and blood-shot the second before the claw around her middle  _squeezed_ and-

Sweat rolled down from his temple as he eased himself into the front seat. He rolled his shoulders, leaning back against headrest. The light from the window reflected in the side mirror, just enough to show the creature's shadow as the lumbering thing cooled its heels in the drive way.

_Shit._

In fact, it didn't seem in a hurry to be going anywhere. He sat up straighter, squinting at the side mirror as the creature shifted.  _What the hell was it doing out there anyway? What was it waiting for?_

A sudden thought chilled like dread down the curve of his spine. Did it hear her? Them?  _Him?_ Could it sense something was nearby? Did it know? He tried to get a clear look at its head through the mist, uncertain of what he was looking for, but desperate to try and figure out how the stupid thing hunted.  _Sight? Sound? Smell? Fucking echolocation?! What?_

He ground the back of his head deep into the headrest, making like he was settlin' in to stay even as his fingers tightened across the trigger of his crossbow. Something had its attention, that was for damn sure.

_God, its timing was utter shit._

He drummed his fingers against the stock, watching ol' lobster head's reflection as it raised a pincer, snapping this way, then that, just above the gutter. He couldn't shake the feeling that the action seemed a whole lot like a hound scenting the air. His brow rose but he decided to go with it. After all, if the last few days had proved anything, it was that apparently even the  _impossible_ was  _possible_.

He lost track of how many minutes had slipped past as the thing clicked its way around the long p-shaped driveway, inspecting the lawn and gardens as giant, trunk-like legs sunk deep into the loamy soil. He tried to will the bird to stay put – letting his thoughts branch out and take flight as he considered what she must've been thinking by now.

He'd told her a few minutes, tops. He'd been gone for far too long already. She'd be worried. Frantic. He could almost picture her, pacing around and around in the den, pinging off the odd tower of boxes as the kids watched, nervous but solemn from the couch corner.

Would she think he'd up and left 'em? Maybe he'd run into some sort of snag? Got himself killed? Or worse, would she come out and investigate? If the bird and her chicks made even so much as a peep-

He rubbed his hand across his face, stretching in place as the creature started angling off, leaving the cobble-stone driveway behind. Christ, he wouldn't put it past her. She was just the right mix of caution and caring to chance giving it a try. She wasn't an idiot, but she'd probably come after him all the same.

_Stupid bird._

He was so caught up in the ifs, ands, and maybes that he didn't realize the creature was heading off, clicking its way across the lawn and deeper into the neighbourhood until the absence of sound suddenly permeated.

He had to get back and this was his fucking window.

He jammed his bow into the passenger seat, slapping determinedly at his pockets before he remembered.  _Keys. He needed keys._  He ducked his head out the window, fingers making filthy smudges along the window-edge before he spotted the dish of keys glinting from the ledge beside the door, just like the bird had chirped about.

He was halfway there when an excited little chitter sounded out – close and menacing in the air just above his head.


	14. Chapter 14

Two things firmed through the grey at the same time. First, that one of those spider things was in here with him. And two, he'd left his fucking bow in the god damned truck. He could already hear Merle's voice, howling with laughter in his mind's eye.

_You've gone and done it now, boy! Just look at this mess!_

_It's sloppy. Plain 'n simple._

_What'cha gonna do now, huh? Scare it to death?_

The sound of skittering legs  _ting-ting-tinged_ across the metal grating, left, then right, then left again. The direction forced him to abandon making for the stairs, instead he did a switchback, deeking right, parallel to the boot rack, hoping that the far corner would provide adequate cover.

_He couldn't see it! Where was-_

He flinched, ducking low behind the ledge just below the stairs as the sound of its exo-skeleton  _crik-criked,_ brushing up against something metallic only a few meters shy of his fringe as he went for his buck knife.

_Fuck._

The blade glinted in the low light as he hunkered down beside the tool chest, trying to figure out what the hell he was dealing with as another chitter – curious but close - echoed, taking on shades as the garage exaggerated the sound and tossed it back.

_It sounded like it was right on top of him. But he couldn't see it, it didn't make sense. For Christ sakes, it felt more like he was playing hide and go seek with the damn thing than hunting it. Something wasn't-_

The rush of vulnerability was unwelcome, edging towards panic before his gaze caught on the big ass heating duct that ran plum through the center of the room. The realization was like taking a two by four to the face.  _The vents. It was in the fucking vents!_

He kept his eyes on the duct, following the creature's progress as the metal bulged and warped, popping and pinging as one of its legs, spindly and long, waved lazily through the nearest grate.

He chewed on the inside of his lip, eyes darting from the vent, to the dish of keys, to the truck, then back again. He blinked, grinding his molars when he realized the thin leg was gone – the mocking little chitter that followed just confirmed what he'd been thinking all along.

_It knew he was here._

_It knew it had him cornered._

He tasted blood. Not realizing he'd bit down until a trickle of red ran down the back of his throat. The skin across his knuckles pulled tight, firming around the handle of his knife.  _Two could play this fuckin' game._ He'd been huntin' game this size since his god damned balls had dropped.

Either way, the facts hadn't changed. He had somewhere to be -  _somewhere better_  - somewhere where it wasn't just his door knob that was happy to see 'im. He hadn't wanted to admit it before, but now, facing down a whole lot of nothing, this new life – his 'new start?' Well, it seemed pretty god damn empty.

And as much as he tried not to, that little voice in the back of his head kept whispering and nudging, sayin' she could be somethin' – her and her chicks - maybe even somethin' good. Fuck knows. Maybe it was just a case of wishful thinkin', sleep deprivation or some shit. But it sure as hell didn't stop the whispers. Wasn't like life had done him much in the way of favors, so maybe he was overdue. Hey,  _he'd_ found  _her_ , hadn't he?

' _Look'it you, waxin' poetic like a real life fancy pants, college graduate,'_ Merle's voice cracked, piping up just when it wasn't wanted. So much like the real thing he nearly did a double take. ' _What's next little D? A dozen roses and a serenade by the ocean? Wining and dining her like some city-slicker on an ego trip? You come from better stock than that, Darlina.'_

He took a minute to consider his next move. Did he get the keys and go from there? Or should he try for the truck, make for his crossbow and deal with this fuckin' problem so he could make tracks out of here?

He rose, knife up – cheek to handle as a drop of sweat  _plink-plinked_ across the flat of the blade. The creature was silent - still. He didn't buy it. He craned his neck, able to catch the glint of keys in the dish just out of reach on the ledge above him.  _They were so close._

He realized he'd made his decision the moment his foot hit the bottom stair. There were ten steps. Ten steps to that stupid dish of keys, ten steps up, ten steps down, then maybe nine meters back to the truck. It was a risk. But it sure as hell beat getting to the truck only to have to fight his way back. This wasn't supposed to be fuckin' cake walk. This was the lesser of two evils, plain and simple.

He made it to the fifth stair, creeping along, slow and steady, no sudden moves, tryin' not to make a sound when the creature started moving again. Only this time it meant business. It scurried to the grate just a few meters to his left, four eyes burning red through the slates as it pushed against the warping metal.

_Jesus, it was trying to punch right through!_

He heard a screech, followed by the pop of a screw and he was moving again, off like a shot as his feet met with plush, royal blue carpeting. He nearly did a header into the door, catching himself on the ledge as his boots sunk deep into the expensive fibers. He fumbled with the keys, sending the dish careening over the side and shattering across the cement. He didn't bother sorting through them; he just shoved the jumble into his vest pocket and took the stairs two at a time.

_There was no time. The little fucker was almost-_

He'd just cleared the last one when the creature jabbed its teeth – saber toothed and sharp – through what was left of the grate and  _twisted._ He dodged, sliding across the back end of the Aston Martin as the thing came careening out of the grate, long legs flailing, scrabbling. It hit the floor and arched up, hissing as he flinched backwards, keeping the trunk between them as the creature tried to come around the other side.

He cast a look behind him, quick and furtive, the truck was just a handful of steps behind him. If he could just-

He felt the wind as the thing tried to side-swipe him, fangs gnashing as the spikes on its back puffed up, razor sharp and threatening in the low light.

He lashed out, feeling the blade connect then bounce harmlessly, scratching a line down the creature's front as it leapt over the trunk, skittering left to avoid his thrust but not quite making it in time.

_You've got to be fucking kidding me! These little fuckers were armored?!_

He backed up, trying to find better cover as the thing advanced, tiny claws leaving sharp little scores in the finish as it climbed over the hood, beady little eyes focused – following his every move – as he took another careful step back.

For a long moment they just circled one another, sizing each other up. Looking for vulnerabilities – weaknesses – anything they could apply some sort of pattern to, predict the next move, the next strike. There was intelligence there, he realized, something more than just learned behavior. It was curious, inquisitive. It wanted its meal, but it wasn't above playing with its food at the same time.

His lip curled back in a silent snarl.  _Let it try._

It was wary of him now. It knew he wasn't like the others. He wasn't like the soft, squalling pieces of prey its brothers had strung up in the trees. He wasn't like the ones they'd stuck with their stingers, hatching eggs inside pink bellies. Watching them writhe and scream as they bubbled out, a billion black specks fountaining out of sagging bellies and distorted flesh.

It knew he was different.  _A predator._

A pearl of liquid glistened on the end of the creature's stinger. Clear with the slightest tinge of greyish-blue. The hand holding the buck knife flexed, defensive. The spider just hissed, deep yet pitchy as the depths of the garage swallowed the echoes.

_It was gonna have to work for its meal._

He used the time to look, study. Every creature had a weak spot, something to exploit and use to your advantage. It didn't matter if it was another planet, another universe, hell -another god damned reality - that was a precedence that stayed pretty much the same. There was no such thing as the perfect predator. There was always a way to win. Just came down to finding it, is all.

_So, it had a shell, right? Armor? An exo-whatever? Did it go all the way around? Was there a hole, a chink? An unprotected spot that he could aim for when the stupid thing finally-_

It moved so fast his brain was still trying to process the change when it hit him in mid-leap. The creature's momentum sent them sprawling, slamming into the crotch rocket and tipping it over, eliciting a crash loud enough to raise the dead.

He scrabbled backward, crab-walking as he searched blindly for his knife, trying to keep out of range of its drool-slicked fangs. It snapped and hissed, figuring it had the upper hand. Legs rubbing together excitedly like a fat dude unveiling a Thanksgiving feast.

_Shit! Where was his fucking knife? How was he gonna-_

His breath left his throat with a panicked wheeze as he caught it by the front legs, feeling his skin grate and tear as the roughness of its armor plates caught around his fingers. But he didn't let go. He couldn't. It was all he could do not to get pushed back; trying to counter getting mowed into the cement and struggling to gain some ground as they wrestled across the stone floor.

He flailed, doing his best to keep out of reach as it angled its belly, trying to stick him with its stinger. The same one he'd seen drop people clean in their tracks – all wrapped up in gauzy white. The stinger grazed his pant leg, so close he felt the wind as it stabbed into the cement, eliciting an enraged shriek from the creature as they thudded up against a wall.

_Fucking-fuck-fuck-fuck-shit!_

He dug his toes into the wall and strained, shifting his weight  _just so_ – chancing a half second to look around before he spotted it.  _His knife!_  Crooked fangs snapped, slicing through the air millimeters from where his face had been only a second before, trying to pin him up against the wall, the base of its stinger so slick with venom that it was dribbled across the floor, smearing the concrete a heady coal-grey as it jabbed at him, missing him by hair's breath as the muscles in his arms trembled at the strain.

_It had to be now! He wasn't going to be able to hold on much longer!_

The reality of the situation was sharp, visceral in a way that made his teeth ache. Heart pounding like it was trying to make a break from his chest, he hooked the handle of the knife with his heel and kicked. The move sent it pinging off in the opposite direction, flying across the smooth cement until it hit the wheel of the Lamborghini and came whizzing back – inches from his right hand.

The next time the creature lunged he went for it. He chanced more than he probably should have when he dug his knees in the creature's belly, keeping it off balance as his palm curled around the handle, spearing downwards as his buck knife found what it was looking for.  _An opening._

Something burned - a bright lancing pain that slashed across his left shoulder but he ignored it. Instead, he flipped them, scrambling on top of the horrid thing to make sure it couldn't scuttle away, letting the blade sink deep before he  _twisted_ – churning up its guts as it squealed and kicked.

_Die you ugly fuck!_

It didn't go quickly or even quietly, and even when he was sure it actually  _was_  dead, that sure as hell didn't stop its legs from twitching. But somehow, hours or maybe just minutes later, he found himself crawling away, struggling to find his feet as he dug through the mess of keys in his vest pocket.

_The bird. He had to get home to the bird._

The dust on the windshield was thick, muting the world into shades of grey as he levered himself into the front seat, shoulder slashed – bloody and deep – from his collarbone to the knob of shoulder. The leggy little shit had gotten him good. One of those freakin' fangs, no doubt.

He gritted his teeth, he'd be fine. He shrugged, testing the range of movement. It wasn't too bad, nothing he couldn't handle. He'd had worse after all, much worse. He slipped the rag out of his back pocket, giving the wound a cursory wipe before he used his teeth and his good arm to tie it. A headache throbbed between his temples, all aching muscles and ripped up fingernails as he shut the door behind him.

_Man up, Dixon._

He fumbled with the keys, tossing a second set, then a third out the window before the logo matched. He swore to God that the sound of that truck revving to life was one of the  _sweetest_ fucking sounds of his entire god damned life.

It was only when he'd belted up, crossbow within easy reach on the seat beside him, foot easing up on the clutch, that he stared at the closed garage door and almost choked on a manic, hysterical sort of laugh.

_Well, shit._

He crept out of the driveway at a snail's pace. Shoulder bleeding all over the leather interior as he made a loop around the driveway and edged out onto the street. What remained of the garage door hung uselessly around the frame, littering the ground with paint chips and expensive lacquered pine as the tires  _crunch-crunched_ over the lot.

He crept down the blacktop cautiously, mindful of the creepin' critters, before parking as close to the bird's house as he could manage, keeping within maneuvering distance to both the main road and the lakefront before he turned off the engine.

It didn't hurt to be cautious after all. To have options. Lobster head had been angling east, deeper into the Lakefront last time he'd seen it, seemed to him like the main road was the best call all the way around. It might be more crowded than the other road, but it had more turn offs, more switch backs they could use if they needed to double back or find a different route.

He left it there, keys jingling in his pocket, too wary to leave it idling as he took the rest of the driveway on foot. He choked on a bitter pull of frustration when no one stirred from the house. He adjusted the strap of his crossbow, sparing a cursory glance at his wound before getting distracted.

_Where the hell was she? She was supposed to be at the door, ready to go. What did she think she was-_

He was halfway up the driveway when the muted crash of broken glass shattered through the still. There was the blast of a gun, singular and lonely, followed by a terrified cry, then – just as quickly as it'd started –  _nothing_.

The world stopped. And suddenly he was running.


	15. Chapter 15

He didn't bother with the handle or the lock, he hit the door running. He slouched his uninjured shoulder and broke the door clear off its hinges, kicking his way through the splintered wood and toppled boxes, crossbow up – ready.

"Where are you?!"

He pushed past them, wading through a sea of packing peanuts and bath towels. But there was nothing. No sound. Not even a peep. The silence alone was enough to light a fire under his ass, but it was the mess that really got to him. It looked like someone had led a couple dozen bulldozers through the joint and fucked everything to hell.

He braced himself against one of the remaining towers, using it as a lever as he lunged over the last bit of debris and charged full tilt through the kitchen.  _The gunshot sounded like it'd come from the front room, maybe-_

He stopped dead, nearly tripping over a pair of blood spattered sneakers that were paced out in front of the oven like someone had run clean out of them. They were little shoes, red and white Reeboks, too tiny to be hers – the boy's maybe.

_Victor._

A mangled, ugly sound slipped from the back of his throat as his gaze lingered. It took him a moment to realize that the sound had come from him in the first place. But when the realization hit, he couldn't help but think it'd sounded a whole lot like a whimper.

His finger tightened on the trigger.  _This was his fault. He'd left her. Her and the chicks. He should have been there, he should have-_

He didn't want to dwell on it but the echoes stayed. He felt responsible. No, he  _was_ responsible. It was an unfamiliar feeling, dank and suffocating as an emotion he didn't quite recognize tightened in the pit of his gut. He gritted his teeth.  _He should have never gotten involved. He should have left her where he found her and let nature sort out the rest._

He choked on an unsteady breath, unable to stop himself when he swayed backwards, the action slight but damning as another part of him, just as angry, just as wounded, rose up in a fierce negative.

His throat tightened, hinged somewhere between grief and rage when he realized the ache was coming from within, throbbing in the center of his chest as his thoughts ranged into the black. The edge of a counter bit into his back as he slumped backwards. His expression twisted up and desperate as he opened his mouth, choking on a word, a name, unable to let it go.

_Christ. She'd trusted him._

_She'd trusted him and now she was-_

The sound of glass crunching underfoot – crisp and unmistakable – caused his head to whip up. He was moving, one foot in front of the other, clearing the linoleum and digging his heels into the carpet before he'd even made a conscious decision to go after her.

_Was shit like this even possible? Could he seriously be that lucky? God knows he didn't deserve it. But she did, her and the chicks. You'd think the man upstairs might make an exception, at least for their sakes._

He rounded the corner, brain on automatic as he eased up the nose of his crossbow – defensive, but just careless enough that he knew it wouldn't make much difference if he was wrong, if she _hadn't_ made the shot. He was too far gone for anything else, in too deep to back out and count his losses. For better or worse he was in this shit for the long haul.

"…Carol?"

When he said her name, he didn't think about the fact that it was for the first time. Or even about the way his voice came out sounding rough and almost desperate. So unlike himself that any other time he might have shut down or done a double take. He didn't think about the way he cleared his throat, chin tucking into his chest, protective, as the moment grew legs and tried to crawl away. All he can think, all he fucking cared about was-

And despite all odds, the response, equal parts thready, strained and hopeful, took the silence by storm.

"…Daryl?"

He could have fucking kissed her.

* * *

He only had a second to take it in – the broken front window, one of those flying scorpion things dead on the floor, the bird with his pea-shooter up, terrified and fierce in the low light – before she was in his arms. All three of them were trembling and flightless, their whimpers edging towards full-fledged sobs as the chicks followed, curling around him half a second later.

He stiffened, but it was no use. There were little hands wrapped around his pant legs, smudgy faces pressed into the curve of his hip and for a long moment he just stood there. Cracked lips stinging as his tongue swiped across his lower lip – nervous and uncertain.

The hotness of the bird's tears surprised him, trickling down the collarbone, a sharp relief after the accidental brush of lips on skin. It centered him in an odd way. Ill-timed arousal was a great leveler, sweeping manners and morals clear across the board. He just wished he didn't know that from experience. Because call it adrenaline, or him just being sick in the head, but his downstairs brain couldn't help but go there anyway.

It was weird and intimate and he probably should have been embarrassed that he liked it at all – but frankly, at this point, he was so far past giving a fuck, he was completely off the map.

"You alright? It didn't get you? Not anywhere?" he demanded, gruff and only a few inches shy of saving face as the ability to form words returned in a rush.

"No, I'm fine, we're fine," she insisted, shaking and pressing into him like she meant to disappear somewhere inside his skin, peeling him back in layers until there was nothing left but the foundations. Until shivering exhalations dared to rise above the haze of mist and humidity and they finally remembered what shit like posterity and personal space actually meant.

There was a sedate sort of intensity to the embrace, something strange but alluring. Something that – when he actually had time to give it a second thought – he missed when it was over. It took less pride than he figured it 'oughta, but after a long moment, he returned the gesture one handed, on edge and teaming with discomfort when she melted into it.

He wasn't made to handle delicate things.

"Oh, thank god! I'm so glad you're alright! You were gone for so long; I wanted to go after you, to make sure you weren't hurt, but-"

He got that same feeling again. Like when the bird had joined him for dinner the night before last, that warm, curling, cloying feeling. Like he was being thought of. Fussed over. He wasn't certain that he liked it, but in small doses...he didn't know. Maybe it was because he wasn't used to it. Not used to where it came from – all sincere and honest and shit. Because god knows the bird didn't have a mean bone in her body.

Her fingers lingered on the edge of the blood-soaked rag, mouth turning down at the corners as her eyes found his, seeking assurance as he firmed his lips and gave her a small nod.  _He was alright._ The grimy, scar-strewn span of his shoulder insulted the smoothness of her hands as long, delicate fingers stalled in the dip of his collarbone, no longer a touch, but rather, a caress.

He bit down on a shudder, but only just.

The affection – the feeling – choked him. Yet it didn't repel him. He shuffled his feet. Meaning to put some space between them but forgetting to actually do it as her smile went all the way to her eyes, downy, vulnerable and fierce as she chattered on.

He forgot to listen as the smile spread. And damn him to hell, but he could  _definitely_  get used to that.

It was only when she pulled back, giving him a few spare inches to breathe that he shook himself out of the too pleasant haze and took a careful step back. But rather than coming out as an insult, as a clear negative in case she planned on doing a repeat, he knew it was more of a compromise than anything. And judging from the solemn, yet somehow still mischievous expression, she knew it too.

"Com'on, we've got somewhere else to be, I don't fancy stickin' around for its dinner date, do you?"

And despite the wince he leveled her way as the chicks were herded into packsacks and stupidly bright, colorful jackets. Despite the thuds and tired whines, the heavy breathing and the occasional frightened whimper, he could practically  _hear_  the bird's smile.

* * *

The gas tank gave out a hundred and ten miles outside of Bridgeton. They caught each other's gaze in the rear view mirror, and for a long time the only sound was the soft snores of the little ones, twin heads of reddish brown and black as they slept fitfully on either side of her lap.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The expensive leather creaked at the strain as his nails bit into the finish.  _Shit._ The mist just swirled, pressing up against the windows, as inscrutable as ever as he wrenched the key out of the ignition and tossed them off to the side. The silence was judgement, like the entire fucking universe taking a moment out of its day just to laugh at them.

He jumped when her hand curled around his shoulder. Soft and gentle like she just knew as he tried to suppress the flinch. But if she noticed, she didn't show it.

"We have to try," she said softly, tone unsteady, tremulous, but firm when she leaned forward, all lingering perfume and soft skin as her nails gentled across the dip of his shoulder blade.

But if she was trying to soothe him, it didn't work. In fact, he balked at it.

_Try?_

_Christ._

He was a realist, not a saint. He knew how this story was going to end. At least alone he would have stood half a chance, but now? With baggage? He'd have more luck growing wings and _flying_ out of this god forsaken state.

He stared out the windshield, deliberately not looking back when one of the kids stirred, all gangly limbs and high tones. He closed his eyes, head thudding back against the headrest as she shushed them. He gnawed on a hangnail as the sound of the chicks frightened cries built up in the back of his head like a migraine. He worried the skin until it was bloody when the bird starting singing. Her voice was soft, low and pleasant as the fog feathered across the hood of the truck in dusty waves.

_How could she expect him to-_

"Com'on. We're walking from here," he grunted, gnawing on the inside of his cheek, stamping down on the urge to hit something as the engine hiccuped, burbling reproachfully as he rested his forehead against the vinyl. But still, he didn't move. Making a mockery of the order as he kept his ass planted, counting the number of bullets he had for his piece.

The answer made him grimace.

It wasn't enough, nowhere near enough.

Her hand was still resting on his shoulder.

Somewhere in the distance, the shock waves of giant foot falls rocked the truck with a series of gentle rolling waves. The fingers tightened, if only slightly, before relaxing again.

And after a long moment he wondered if they were the only ones left alive to hear it. Was there some other sorry sonofabitch stuck out here like them? Waiting on a prayer as they actually  _watched_  the giant thing lumber past – all ancient grace and impossibly large as it cleared power lines and trees like they were nothing more than dips in the road? Or was that just wishful thinking on his part? Were they the only ones left? Or just the only ones stupid enough to get caught out in the open?

The anger returned, but this time it was focused on himself. He'd gotten attached and he only had himself to blame. That shit was on him.

He shrugged off the hand, skin crawling with the aftershocks as she sent him a wounded look. "We're loosin' light," he finally rasped, snagging his bag and crossbow as he unfolded himself from the front seat, snarling under his breath because he wasn't the kind of man who just curled up and cried when he probably had every right to.

The echo of the door slamming shut followed them through the mist.

It didn't occur to him until later that she'd never actually asked.


	16. Chapter 16

The kids were tough; fearful but strong, just like their mother. But all that counted for exactly jack shit when it came to putting foot to the blacktop. So it wasn't long before he had the older one, Wanda or Wynona - he forgot which - hefted in his arms. She'd come to him willingly, eyes at half-mast, thin little arms reaching up with all the trust and expectation in the world. It'd taken him a long time to figure out that he'd probably never understand trust which came that blind. Eventually, he decided it wasn't worth trying to question it.

They walked for hours, until the skin above his shirt collar was crusted with tear tracks and dried snot as she huddled into the crook of neck, little arms tight around his shoulders as her legs hung limp and tired around his waist.

She slept.

He sweated.

The bird said nothing.

He wondered if she regretted ever putting her lot in with him in in the first place.

* * *

He lost track of the hours, not realizing it was close to evening until the light streaming through the mist paled, catching them unawares as night started to fall. They passed a house, averting their eyes as the form of a woman, strung up in white in the front window, sagged lazily in the breeze. The next house had a broken front door, the third, nothing. But he just shook his head when the bird shot him a hopeful look.

They had to keep moving.

They stopped for food and water just before nightfall. Crawling into the cab of an abandoned tractor trailer as the chitters and whoops of creatures that had no business ever seeing the light of day grew in chorus.

He sighed, watching as the skittering form of one of the eight-legged freaks darted across a sliver of misty moonlight.  _They weren't going nowhere._ Least not till sunup.

The truck smelled like old sweat and stale Doritos. The chicks slept in the fold down bunk in the back. He kept his eyes on the road, trying not to over think it when the bird reached out and slotted their fingers together. She rubbed her thumb across the knobbly, scar-puckered bumps of his knuckles, all gentle and slow, a unified front as they faced the night together.

* * *

Dawn found them exhausted, blood-spattered and down to only three rounds in his shotgun. But they were alive.  _Barely_. The semi had provided enough cover to get them through the worst of it. Luckily for them, one of the Lobster heads had interrupted the spider's game plan a few hours before dawn allowing them to sneak out under the wheels and into the brush while the big one tried to stake a claim.

Neither of the kids had made even so much as a peep since he'd grabbed one of those winged bastards by the leg and jammed its vulnerable underside through the shattered windshield. Sticking it clean through the belly as it shrieked and screamed, spraying the dash with some sort of liquid that made the interior bubble and warp.

And as they started walking, inching through the dark as the dawn made tracks in the shrouded sky, he tried to convince himself that was a good thing.

* * *

It was just past mid-day, the chicks were chirping – hungry – and he was ass up in the trunk of an abandoned car, looking for something to shut 'em up when the unmistakable  _click-click_ of a magazine being cleared wisped through the still.

He had half a second to wrench himself upright, crossbow up and the three of them safe behind him before suddenly-

"US Marines!"

They came barreling out of the mist as one, crouched down and suited up in full gear, hazmat suits, gas masks, the works. They looked like something straight out of a cheap-ass horror flick, but fifty times less funny as they quickly surrounded them.

"He's got a weapon!"

He flinched, biting down on the inside of his cheek as the voice carried. But he didn't move. Not even when the others joined in, yelling, a criss-cross of frustration and conflicting orders as Carol and Victor firmed across the flat of his back, sticking close. The chick, Wanda, just dug her face deeper into his chest, quivering.  _They were scaring the kids, giving away their position, were these douches even for real?_

"Sir, lower your crossbow! That's an order!"

It was probably the smart thing to do. But his blood was up and he was staring down the barrels of at least _six_  different semi-automatics and frankly, he didn't feel inclined to listen too much of  _anything_  these pricks had to say.

"You first, Captain America," he rasped, directing his attention to the one dude that held back, who was actually surveying them, their situation and surroundings like he actually gave half a damn.

The boy – Victor – let out a low, terrified sort of wail, arms clutched tight around the bird's neck as one of the grunts took a menacing step towards them, brandishing his gun like he was some low life trying to play it up in the middle of raiding a mini-mart. At this point he wasn't taking any chances.

His lips pulled back.  _If these guys didn't back off he wasn't going to-_

And the lead man seemed to realize it, because barely a second later he was barking off orders like he'd been born with the soul of a god damned drill sergeant. "Give the man some space, Corporal!"

The lead-man was quick to establish order, sending the idiot who'd advanced on them to the back of the line with his tail between his legs, before stepping forward. The suit and mask caused the words to come out tinny – lacking in inflection – as their radios cracked – buzzing in and out with static. It was the man's body language that told him he was no threat.

"All of you get back! That's an order! Have some respect, god damn. Homeboy's just protecting his own."

Still, he didn't let his guard down until the man made a point to lower his gun first.

He let the matter sit for a handful of beats before he did the same.  _Slowly_.

"The military is regaining control of the situation. We are here to take you to safety," the man explained. Towering over the four of them in that affable, slightly apologetic sort of way most big people tend to feel obligated to do when they realize they are the tallest people in the room.

Somewhere behind him, the bird stirred, hopeful as she pressed her lips into the boy's hair, crooning nonsense and soothing words as both chicks sobbed quietly. Too tired and wrung out to do anything more.

"No shit," he cracked, dry and clever, something of Merle rising up unbidden as a few of the uniforms closed the circle, making noise about the kids and the wound on his arm, just threatening enough to make the bird shuffle a few inches closer, taking her cues from him now as he let the tip of his crossbow graze through the long grass.

"Well, congratulations to you," he snarled, feeling the weight of the past few days dissolve the last of the reserves he'd been leaning on since sunrise, "you're fucking late."

And surprisingly, despite the fact that he'd probably had it up to his ears already with terrified civilians getting butt hurt about response times and their interrupted afternoon naps, the big, hulking man laughed. Taking off his mask to reveal a face that matched his massive frame, yet still managed to look like a mix between the boy next door and the burly ass gang member that kept rescued kittens in his back pocket.

"Brother, from what I've seen since our boots hit the grass, that's one hell of an understatement."

The relief was damn near crippling.

* * *

After a quick walk they were herded towards a group of military Humvees, meeting up with a larger unit that seemed to be in the middle of fire-bombing the brush on either side of the road. The roar was loud, even for him, hot enough that he could practically feel his spit evaporating across his tongue as they crossed the blacktop, following Captain America and his goon squad to a Humvee parked on the other side of the road.

The honor guard was unnecessary, and not exactly flattering, but they let him keep his bow and shotgun so he figured, at the end of the day, they were holding even. Besides, he'd managed to convince the bird to stash his piece in her handbag, just in case. He took a measure of comfort knowing that even if they got separated, she'd be able to take care of herself.

Merle would have taken him to task about his priorities, about always looking out for 'me, myself and I' first. Luckily for him, it'd been a long ass time since he'd cared about anything Merle had to say.

Wanda just tightened her hold, one hand firm around his neck, curling against his chest, doing her best to become invisible. He hefted her easily, ignoring the low throb from his shoulder as the flames reflected oddly off her too wide eyes.

From there, water, blankets and food rations were practically thrown at them at them as they buckled up and hit the road. He took his package of crackers slow, not scarfing it down like the chicks then beggin' for 'just a bit more water, mum?'

He sat on the left, behind the driver, trying and failing to ignore the girl as she kept a one handed death grip on his belt loop. The bird sat beside her, keeping her and the boy on either side. For the most part, he kept his mouth shut, listening as their driver and the two other grunts sitting up front talked in hushed voices, something about containment measures and a safe zone.

_No shit, Sherlock._

It was the clipped chatter on the radio that actually told him something worth knowing. It took a while a tease it out, going off of what he remembered from some of his old high school buddies who'd joined the service right after graduation. But eventually he narrowed it down to two major points.

First, this thing hadn't spread as far as he'd originally figured it had. And second, they were considering dropping some sort of big ass payload on ol' elephant-tentacle-dude, the creature that was roughly the size of a couple dozen air craft carriers stacked on top of each other.

He snorted, earning a doleful look from one of the men in front as he tried to imagine it.

 _Yeah,_   _good luck with that, fellas._

* * *

They drove for another half an hour, stopping periodically to pick up strays and deal with the occasional creature-feature problem before they met up with the main convoy. They were loaded up into big, open-air trucks that had benches on either side; they were cliché, uncomfortable and looked like something straight out of the climax of some god awful America-saves-the-world-again action flicks where the hero's family and friends wave happily, safe and sound.

He sank onto the bench gratefully, wary, but exhausted. Some part of him secretly pleased when the bird and her chicks settled in beside him. His eyes slid to half-mast as the back of the truck quickly filled up with survivors, with wounded grunts in camo and torn up hazmat suits, then a handful of muscle for backup before someone smacked the tailgate and got the conga-line moving.

The people around them – solider and civilian alike – seemed to be on the level, if not a bit jumpy. He figured they probably had every right to be, considering what was out there. But still, he didn't plan on letting the three of them out of his sight.

Funny how shit like that changes on you sometimes.

It was only when they were underway, trundling along at a snail's pace as groups of soldiers turned flame throwers on the undergrowth and whipped up flame and ash as they scorched the ground down to the very earth, that they were told where they were heading.

The safe zone – the evacuation camp, the same one they'd been trying for since they'd left the bird's house. God, how many days ago? He rubbed his hand over his face doing a double take when he looked out the window and realized that the mist was actually clearing.

He blinked, watching the road take shape in front of them, listening through a crack in the window as the creatures shrieked, burning and twisting in the trees as their nests went up in flames.

It took him a moment to realize it was high noon and the sun was shining, bright and unmistakably wholesome, as the chicks pressed up against the windows, peeping wonderingly as the mist started to fade, hazing off into the clear as the convoy made tracks across the blacktop.

It felt dangerously close to a happy ending.


	17. Chapter 17

The divots of the metal bench dug into his ass as they bounced along the uneven road. But he was too tired to give a damn, distantly aware that the throb of his injured shoulder was sending out little pulses of heat that'd started branching out from the wound in a way he knew he should probably be worried about.

He didn't need to see it to know it was probably infected, god knows what was in those little fuckers' saliva. He shook his head, the action barely there and imperceptible before he made a point to abandon the train of thought. He'd get it seen to soon enough.

He was still sitting, lounging across the stupid rusty bench, one hand loose around the metal bar as the truck bounced and lurched, when her back went ridged. The muscles tensed all the way up to the knob of her spine as she tightened her hold on the kids, looking at something he couldn't see just off to the side of the road.

He craned his neck, catching a glimpse of the front end of an old Toyota Land Cruiser and the crumpled figure of a man in a brown shirt - broad-shouldered and broken - before a group of suits blocked him from view and the truck moved on.

"What was it?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard above the roar of the engine.

"Nothing," she murmured, eyes sad as she nudged the kids back towards the bench, allowing them to nose up on either side of him as she remained standing. Pointedly not looking back as a heart wrenching scream rose up above the noise of the tanks, wafting through the stillness for a few lingering seconds before cutting off again – abrupt and without filter.

She slipped around the bulk of a Marine like mercury, giving the chicks a reassuring nod before making her way to the front of the truck to speak with the driver. He didn't pay much attention to what happened next, deciding to keep his nose out of it as one of the men tipped her a nod and started yapping into his radio.

Still, it made him wonder – off hand and quiet like – about the lengths a man had to be pushed to scream like that.

* * *

They arrived to well organized chaos. The camp was only half set up, a mess of clean military lines and a bunch of random-ass civilians coasting on not enough coffee and a distinctly non-uniform set of variables. But somehow they made it work. It was a start at least.

Somewhere close by a woman in military greens encouraged passersby to donate blood. In a gap between the lines of tents, a group of children played with a half-filled soccer ball. An old man on a walker tottered past, smiling despite the gauzy bandage wrapped around his head. He looked up and caught the tail end of a sparrow – no – a robin as it flittered past, piping and singing as the sound of the forest slowly started coming back.

They took a moment just to stare. To remind themselves that  _yes_ , the world still did exist and that,  _no_ , they weren't the only ones. That they'd made it, survived. After so many days lost in the white, isolated and alone, they were here, safe. He'd almost forgotten what that felt like.

Because there were more, more people, more trucks, more supplies, you name it. Even now, new survivors were piling out of trucks, smiling, crying, whole and injured, in every color and condition. Proving once again just how hard humanity, as a species, was to kill.

He paused, struck by the idea.  _Had they really won?_

The concept was foreign, like the instruction manuals that came with just about everything from toasters to noodle soup these days – blinding him with fancy packaging and colorful swirls - a whole different language he didn't care enough to try and understand.

Dixons weren't used to winning, or coming out on top, least of all the honest way. He came from a family where you had to  _crawl_  their way to the top, slinging punches through the muck, sweat and dirt - all bloody fists and split skin.

A Dixon only ever came out even. And usually, they had to fight for it.

If Merle had done anything right by him growing up, it was teaching him that the world didn't owe anyone no favors. And that it would just as soon as knock you on your ass and chew you up for breakfast than cut you a break. You had to make your own way, your own luck. And if you wanted something, you had to go out and shank or cheat someone to get it.

That was the way the world worked. He'd always figured he was just the only one being honest about it.

Only she'd gone and blown that all to hell, hadn't she?

* * *

They were stopped a few yards from where they'd clambered down from the trucks by a harried looking woman with a clipboard in one hand and a sling around the other. She took one look at his shoulder and led them – thin lipped – to the medical tents.

The chicks and the bird were herded one way, apparently getting a check-up by a woman in nursing scrubs and a kind smile, while he was bullied into a corner bed by a sleepy looking nurse's aide, his tan slacks coated in an uneven layer of dried blood and vomit.

"What happened?" the man asked, tone flat, almost bored as he snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and tugged the knot of the rag free so he could inspect the wound. His nose twitched as the stale smell of sweat and sick rose in the close space. He tried to think of something else as the idiot poked and prodded, attention divided as something the nurse said to one of the chicks made Victor laugh.

"One of those spider fuckers," he grunted, deciding to save them both some steps as he shrugged out of his leather vest, hissing a bit as the material grazed the open wound.  _Fucking ow._

What he wasn't expecting was the entire god damned room to come to a screeching stop.

"With the stinger?" the aide demanded, flinching back before he got a hold of himself, his poker face worse than the bird's as a Doctor – all silver haired temples and tired eyes - looked up from his stitching job the next bunk over.

"Do you think I'd be here it if got me with  _that_  end?" he snapped, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the weight of the stares intensified.

"How did you fight it off?" the doctor asked, butting in before the aide could speak, forcing the man to swallow his words, looking two parts doubtful and one part suspicious as he prodded the edges of the wound like something was liable to pop out and bite him.

He raised a brow, watching as the surgeon tied off the last stitch on the soldier's leg. He nodded to his nurse and unfolded himself from his chair, wiping his hands on a rag as he dismissed the aide poking at his shoulder and took over.

"I stuck it before it could stick me," he answered, deciding to go the extra mile as he unsheathed his buck knife and tossed it on the tray with a clatter.

The gasps of shock and surprise were audible from clear across the tent as orderlies, doctors and soldiers alike all vied for a look-see. And for once, he couldn't blame 'em. He hadn't noticed it till the night in the semi, but something in the creature's insides – all that goopy crap - must have been corrosive or some shit because it'd warped the blade. Pitting the sheen and eating at the edges into it'd turned a five year old buck knife into something you might find at an archeological dig in Gaza or South America.

Fuck if he knew the hows or the whys. He was just glad he hadn't gotten any of that shit on his skin, thank you  _very_  fucking much.

"The general will want to speak with you, we've only recently regained a foothold and need all the help we can get sussing out their weaknesses and such," the doctor commented, holding up a saline solution, giving him time to get in the right mindset before he got to work cleaning the wound.

"Fair enough. But I ain't doing nothin' till they're settled," he grunted, crooking a thumb at the three of them, catching her eye as she helped Victor pull on a clean shirt. The bird colored unexpectedly, pink and warm across her tired cheeks. He found he liked the color.

"We're arranging your tent as we speak, sir. Family sized. Close to the chow-line and the main washrooms," a private stationed beside the door returned – eager and bright - owning his freshly buzzed hair despite the fact that it made his big ears stick out like a sore thumb.

He opened his mouth to say something, to force out a laugh or maybe correct him, but out of nowhere Carol's hand ghosted across his forearm, feather-light and promising and he closed his mouth with a sullen snap.

_What was she playing at?_

He was still lost in thought – alternating between gritting his teeth as the doc swabbed his wound, calling for fresh supplies and forcibly ignoring the world at large - when the woman with the clipboard returned.

"Ma'am, can I have your husband's name, please?"

The bird smiled, all gentle and apologetic over at him, like it was _him_  who'd somehow baulk at the title, but he missed her response in favor of dealing with the fuck-load of feelings that came tumbling down its wake when he finally let himself internalize it.

She was beautiful, he realized. Beautiful in the same understated way the old starlets from the silver screen often were – like the ones in the silent era who had to let their expressions do the talking. It was a stupid comparison, something that made him think about those old photo albums his mother used to go through every winter. Reminding him of long afternoons spent curled up on the couch, half asleep as she'd flipped through black and white photos with unfamiliar people and equally unfamiliar names - calling them family even though he hadn't recognized a single one. But stupid or not, it didn't make it any less true.

She was real, natural - the kind of beautiful that puts the sun to shame.

And for some reason, that only made him angry.

Because she _wasn't_  his.

She'd be flying away soon, now that she didn't need him no more. Sooner than he could blink, she'd be making for a polite little exit off stage left. She'd probably even leave him a forwarding address, a phone number, some way to get a hold of her if he ever needed anything, because she was moral like that. Too god damned cultured and kind hearted to tell him to go to hell and leave her the fuck alone.

He was angry because life  _wasn't_ a fucking song. And if it was, he was certain he'd be the exception. He knew where he stood in the scheme of things. He knew his place. And it sure as hell wasn't with her.

People like him were never that lucky.

* * *

They wandered out of the first aid tent together, angling towards their own – spacious and canvas green. He fiddled with the tensor wrapped around his shoulder, pulling a face as it throbbed – low and hot. The stitches itched. He hated that.

The wind had picked up, fluttering through the feathers of her hair as they surveyed the camp and the green that lay beyond. The sun was even fucking shining. They couldn't have asked for anything more.

"I can find my own tent," he offered suddenly, tongue thick and heavy in his mouth as he forced out the words, figuring it was best to do this quick, like a Band-Aid and a hairy arm – fast and unmerciful.

The refusal was blunt, surprising in its vehemence as she turned, one hand darting up to her mouth, acting like he'd gone and said he was planning to drown a sack full of kittens rather than give himself a chance to bow out gracefully.

"Oh, don't!"

"Look, lady, I can't just-" he started, scowling now as her eyes got that suspicious, watery sheen to them, fucking patented to make him feel like the biggest asshole who'd ever walked the fucking planet. He knuckled the back his neck with blunt fingers, caught in that weird place that existed somewhere between wanting to either apologize or punch something.

_She wasn't makin' this easy._

"Please…"

It was more a quaver, a question than anything else but it hit him square in the gut like one of Merle's drunk-ass specials. When the idiot was too wasted to remember he had fists and kicked out at you instead, cussin' and spiting like he was fit to be tied until either the neighbours called the cops or he ended up passing out before he hit the front porch.

The chicks were wide-eyed and tucked securely under her wings, but she only hesitated for a moment before she took a step towards him – determined and strong. She extended her hand, palm up like an invitation, as a fresh group of survivors pilled off the trucks behind them, turning the entry way into a sea of people – an ill balanced cacophony of sights, sounds and smells - for as far as the eye could see.

"See a lady home?" she asked, lips trembling upwards as the uncertainty of their future spanned out before them – highlighted by an uneven landscape of milling crowds and distant trees.

There was a refusal on the tip of his tongue, an excuse – an out. There were a thousand different reasons why he shouldn't, why  _they_ shouldn't, why this wouldn't work. Why he should just save them both the heartache and cut his losses right here and now.

But in the end, he couldn't.

He just didn't have it in him.

The moment lengthened – anticipatory and hushed despite the people streaming past. He spared a look and found the kids looking up at them uncertainly,  _hopefully_. His throat ached, lips twitchin', uncertain of what she wanted or even expected of him when everything was said and done.

Her hand wavered cautiously between them – drooping, if only slightly when he made no move to take it. But it was just the accompanying movement to the greater whole, because just then, something deep in the pit of his belly  _warmed_ , allowing reality to double back, gently coming full circle as he realized that the decision, if it was ever that, had been made a long ass time ago.

Her hand was small, dry and delicate in both the best and worst of ways as his palm dwarfed hers. He sucked in a breath. Not even trying to mask it when he realized she was doing an approximation of the same. He shook his head; mindful of the company. He kept on forgetting that it wasn't just  _him_  that was broken goods.

Perhaps that was why it was worth a try.

Because between the two of them there might just be the chance to make a whole new person.

He caught her gaze as her thumb rubbed across the scarred span of his knuckles, chin tucked into his chest as he eyed her uncertainly through the fan of his lashes. There was a question there, a warning balanced on the tip of his tongue. Figuring he oughta at least warn her that he was already half convinced that this would all end in tears.

But she just smiled, dazzling and sweet like she could read his mind as she reeled him in – like she was aiming to keep him close. And call him a glutton for punishment, but he let her.


	18. Chapter 18

He woke up slowly, blinking into the late morning glare. The sheets were rucked up under his armpits, all soft and summer-weaved as he untangled the duvet from around his ankle. He cracked a lid, wincing a bit as the red numbers of the alarm clock glared smugly from its place on the bedside table.

 _It was his day off and it was only 6:56 in the morning._   _What in shit's name had woken him-_

"Kids! We're going to be late!"

He blinked up at the ceiling, rolling his eyes as a miniature stampede of small limbs and banging backpacks tumbled down the stairs. He could almost picture it. Hell, he'd seen it enough times over the past year. The bird would be by the front door, watching for the bus, checking and re-checking her watch. Wanda would be hogging the bathroom, leavin' itty-bitty barrettes all over the damn place, while Victor would be only half-dressed, playing with his racing cars under the couch in the den.

"Kids!  _Now_!"

He snorted, turning over and star-fishing across her side of the bed. It was cold. She'd been up for a while. One of the kids yelled, screen door pinging, something about lunchboxes and a school project. The door slammed and idly, he wondered if he could get back to sleep again.

* * *

He'd found work not long after they'd moved in, another repair shop. But this time it was different. It was run by an old timer with a keen eye and a kind face. It was an old, family run business. Clean cut and quality - not like the last place. The man had lost his son and business partner to the mist and had been struggling to make ends meet when he'd happened past and saw the help wanted sign. It was honest work. Good work. And the old timer's little ball and chain doted on them both.

There wasn't anything left of Bridgton, Maine. The military had torched it, the homes, the trees, lake, everything. Hell, even the soil. They'd fire bombed the entire valley. It didn't matter if the homes or buildings were undamaged, they hadn't taken any chances. By the time they'd heard about it, his apartment and the bird's nest had been nothing more than a pile of ash and cinder – embers of memories – both good and bad – floatin' in the breeze.

It sucked the big one, but it was probably for the best. She'd cried some. Making noise about photo albums and the like, but she'd understood. At the end of the day it was a small price to pay – especially considering the alternative.

They'd used the military and government settlement packages to buy some land. They'd found a couple dozen acres one state over with an old, ranch-style farmhouse, a barn and a chunky old workshop. To say it needed work was an understatement. Its paint was peeling; the house needed a new roof, shingles, and was crowned by a crooked little chimney that the chicks had had a good cry over. Because hell if the fat man in the red suit could fit down it.

It wasn't much, but it was home.  _Theirs_.

It was a nest - a fixer upper, something that would have to be worked on from the ground up. There was no way to talk around it, no deluding himself about it. He'd gone into this with his eyes open. Because when everything was said and done it alluded to something  _permanent_ , to something strong and tested and surprisingly, he was okay with that.

He didn't know the soil here. He was going to have to learn.

Merle would've laughed at that, calling him all kinds of a fool for settlin' down and picking up strays. And maybe the him from a few years back might've too, but not anymore. He'd grown up some, seen the light or whatever. He'd taken a chance – a chance on her –  _them_ and somehow it  _hadn't_  come around to bite him in the ass. He was content, maybe even happy. Hell if he knew. All that mattered was her and the chicks. And somehow his luck seemed to be holding.

Besides, the him from two or three years ago had kinda been an asshole anyway.

In a way he'd finally done what he'd set out to do in the first place. To find a home, somewhere he belonged. Only it wasn't a place. It was a person. Carol.  _His bird._  It didn't matter if it was here or back in one of those god forsaken FEMA tents they'd been crammed into during the weeks that'd followed. Stifling and smelling of sweat and untreated septic, it didn't matter.

Home was wherever she was.

He'd take it all in a heartbeat any day of the week.

Merle would'a taken him to task for that too, no doubt. He'd only called him once since the whole 'Invasion from Mars' clusterfuck. It'd been a week or so after the Red Cross and FEMA finally pulled their heads out of each other's asses long enough to get communications off the ground. The General had even given him priority, a sort of thank you for teaching his boys how to deal with the little spider shits and the flyers. He'd figured it wouldn't hurt to let Merle know he was still kickin' – if he was interested at all.

Still, stupid hopes or not, he couldn't deny that his heart hadn't sunk a bit when the damned thing had switched over to voice mail before the second ring. The idiot had probably forgotten to charge it, or had finally just lost it completely – he never could keep track of the damn thing. Either way, it wasn't his problem. He'd done his part. He'd left a god damned message. The next move wasn't up to him.

Merle hadn't called him back. But then, he hadn't expected him to either.

He figured that at some point he was going to have to make sure the asshole was still ticking, but for the time being he wasn't in any hurry. What he had here was too good, too present to let him dwell much on the bad – on the past. He had something good going for him now, perhaps for the first time ever and hell if he was gonna squander it.

* * *

The next time he opened his eyes, awareness came back slower – sweeter. Gentle enough that he didn't jump when he realized there was something tangled around his ankle. He looped back, spreading himself out across the mattress as he slung out a hand and hooked it, reeling it in - all thick, sleepy and not quite awake.

He chewed on a thin, dopy little grin as the red silk made a mockery of old scars and callouses. It was his favourite slinky little night dress, tasteful but still more than enough to get his motor roaring. It'd always reminded him of something – a dream maybe. All he knew for certain was that he'd done a double take in the store one day and next thing he knew, one weekend when the kids were at a friend's for the night, she came strutting out of the bathroom. She'd been a hot mess of smooth flaring curves and material that'd hugged just about every-fuckin-where and  _christ_ – he'd nearly choked on his god damned tongue.

He rubbed the silky material under his lip, revelling in the smooth glide. He breathed her in, crushing it to his face without a second thought, eyes shuttered and eventually closing until the bed dipped and suddenly she was there for real, whispering happily, smelling like fresh dew and that new coffee she liked as she nuzzled into the curve of his shoulder.

It was only a dream, but he figured it didn't matter in the long run. Since the real thing was probably trundling along in his work truck right about now, spitting out dust as the old tires bit into the dusty country road. The back loaded up with the week's groceries. Just like she'd mentioned the night before.

Either way, he was content to wait.

* * *

Their first kiss had been an accident.

He'd been leaning across her, reaching for the salt in the dinky little kitchen in the road-side hotel they'd snapped up after they'd finally been cleared to leave the camps. The kids had been dicking around outside – laughing and doing canon-balls in the pool. She'd caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and figured he was finally coming in for the close.

Pretty fucking hilarious when you think about it.

He'd gotten a gentle, anxious, unexpected little kiss on the corner of his lip and had frozen in mid-reach. He was man enough to admit that he'd blanked for a few seconds. And by the time the rest of him had decided to get a damned clue, she'd turned about five different shades of worry and embarrassment. Enough that she'd made it easy when he'd abandoned the salt-shaker and let his hand ghost across the curve of her waist, giving her plenty of time to get used to the idea – to pull away and say it was all just some big mistake – before he leaned in and returned the favor.

Funny thing was, that while the spatula melted and the scrambled eggs burned right down to the pan, neither one of them ended up regretting it.

* * *

The kids had been an adjustment. They'd grown on him, though. He supposed that had been inevitable. They were like a fungus, really, slow to grow but pervasive and far reaching by the time you realized it was far too late to close up shop and cut your losses. He was smart enough to keep that particular comparison to himself whenever the bird asked, he wasn't a  _complete_  idiot, thanks.

The idea of kids had just never been on his radar. He didn't mean it in a bad way, it just was what it was. Before all this, before the mist and the chicks peepin' in the dark, for him, they'd been a nonentity.

He supposed it came down to the fact that, considering the way he'd grown up, he figured he had no business even getting  _near_ a kid, no less supporting two of 'em. It was more responsibility then he'd expected. You had to feed 'em, read to 'em, make sure they left the house with shit like socks and winter jackets, rain boots and those little god damned mitts that were about the size of his thumb and index finger curled up. You know, all the shit his pa had never bothered to do after they'd lost the family farm, after the fire that'd taken mama – the last person in the world – before the bird – who'd ever bothered to give more than a damn.

They'd taken it one day at a time. All slow and cautious like. But eventually the rough edges had gotten smoother – more accustomed to bending than breaking. There had been a few awkward moments, a few problems when it came to dealin' with all the petty crap, the little turf-wars and arguments that came with their mama seein' a dude who wasn't their old man, but eventually time and their shared circumstances leveled it all out.

So long as the kids didn't start clinging to him. Calling him  _daddy_  and shit, he figured he was still on even keel with 'em. And while only one out of the two actually stuck, he decided that since he didn't utterly fail at it, at the very least, he was coming out more or less even.

He still did the same shit he'd always done. He figured he'd let it change him in only the best of ways. He still went out huntin' – hitting the bush all by his lonesome whenever he needed the space. He'd even gone out and got himself a bike, just like he'd promised himself he would after his run in with that creepy little fucker in the garage all those months ago. Only difference now was he had something to come home to - something worthwhile.

Weird how shit works out sometimes.


	19. Chapter 19

He stretched out, toes curling, one foot hanging clear off the bed until he felt something in his back - some dinky little ache he hadn't realized he'd had - slot back into place. His sigh was positively  _indecent_.

His thumbed the bars of the headrest, pawing at the antique, iron-wrought frame as he soaked in the chill. He rubbed his eyes, flaking off a few stray crusts of sleep as he tried to remember the last time he'd slept in like this.

Or,  _hell_ , if he _ever_  had.

He yawned, drawing it out, hiking up the covers as his toes skimmed the carpet, idly trying to decide if he had to piss or not. He felt like a lush, half buzzed with heat and sleep. He blinked, trying to clear his head, but even that felt thick – slow –  _heady_.

It was damn near dangerous.

He could get  _used_  to this shit.

* * *

Their first time had been like this, sloppy and summer-locked. It'd been real, as real as it got when you have two kids and a couple of layers of fucked up between you. It was a moment, stolen and precious somewhere between the camp and the hotel – the third one since what he'd privately come to call the 'salt-shaker incident'.

It had been desperate and just a bit stupid. Both of them had been too keyed up to think it through or spare a moment to make it last. But it had been good, dark, sweet and twisted, just like they were and at the end of the day it was hard to ask for anything more than that.

They'd both worked hard to make it work. To learn what made each other tick. And hell if it hadn't paid off. He'd learned that a soft, gentle touch could make you soar harder –  _longer_ – than a cruel one. That while the bird didn't have much experience when it came to a man doing the pleasuring, she was more than happy to let him play catch up. He'd learned what it felt like to fall asleep beside someone and wake up the same way – all tangled limbs and twisting sheets. He'd learned the planes of her curves, what she liked and what she didn't, committing every last twitch to memory.  _Just in case._

In time, he'd even learned what _content_  tasted like. What it felt like to watch her fall apart against his tongue, lips slick with her juices as his palms curled around her hips, keeping her grounded as she rode out the aftershocks. And what it felt like to hold her after.

Maybe he was gettin' soft.

But then again, maybe he didn't give a fuck about it either.

* * *

They didn't talk about it - about what they had. They didn't try to define it or force it. But he figured it said something when, as the weeks passed, and their conversations shifted into phrases like "we" instead of "I," it seemed pretty clear, even to a lunkhead like him, where this was all going.

But it wasn't until they'd started talking about making tracks elsewhere and setting down roots, that shit started getting serious. They were in some trailer - a FEMA rental until their paperwork with the government could pass for their 're-housing settlement' - that she poured him a cold one and sat him down at the kitchen table.

He kept quiet during the whole thing, letting her stare him down, all grave and serious like someone had died, before she took a deep breath and laid it all out. She told him about this nursing course she'd taken, back before Wanda was born, about job offers and a promising career, something she'd always wanted to do, but never had the chance to finish.

By the time she'd wound down for the close his mind was wandering and she looked as wrung out a cotton washcloth. It wasn't until she dashed away an errant tear and took a series of shudderingly painful breaths that he finally got a word in edgewise.

"So, what's stoppin' ya?"

She cried for three hours straight, then made him the best apple pie he'd ever had in his entire god damned life.

It was a celebration from start to finish what with her dancing and singing around the kitchen, humming happily with a smudge of flour on her nose and the taste of raw pastry on her breath. He watched her, in something like awe, beer forgotten, as she took the room by storm. Pausing every now and again to sneak him a slice of apple as the tiny kitchen was transformed into an impossible hive of activity and soothing smells.

It didn't occur to him until his four slice of pie, until after the table between them had been spread thick with print outs and brochures from at least three local colleges, that he probably should have asked why she'd ever stopped her course in the first place.

It wasn't until later, until after the pie had been conquered and he was too full to really do anything more than roll himself to bed, he realized he'd known the answer all along.

* * *

He'd woken up the next morning to cold sheets and the smell of stale coffee fading into the close, summer air. He found her at the table where he'd left her, head pillowed in her arms, dead to the world and surrounded in a sea of old text books and balled up pieces of paper.

_She'd been so excited she hadn't even come to bed._

_Excited because he'd done something so stupidly simple as supported her when she'd-_

The rage, the pure injustice of it had burned like a piece of sugar cane dipped in a vat of gasoline - high and hot until determination rose up in its wake. And he'd be god damned if he hadn't driven her to each and every late night class. Toting her books that he swore weighed more than Victor and cost about as much as his truck.

He played Mr. Mom during those nights, rolling the little twerps into bed, barking out orders for pjs and pretending to use their toothbrushes. He'd supervised reading time, pee breaks and  _'just one more story, Mr. Dixon'_  until he wasn't sure  _who_ should be putting  _who_  to bed.

It'd been harder than he'd thought it would be, but somehow, they'd made it work.

And no matter how frustrating, it was all worth it every night she walked through the front door, the tail lights of the city bus dimming into the distance on the back of that old country road they called their own. Because call him whipped, but he lived for the moments where she'd trip through the threshold, tired but grinning, eyes bright as he put the kettle on and listened to her gab about her lessons. Forgetting about all the little shit that gets to you during the day in favor of listening to her talk smack about her professors.

He didn't usually have a lot to offer. Nodding in what he figured were the appropriate places as she went on a spiel about some sort of medical term or instrument, too excited to remember he had not a shit what she was talking about. But it didn't seem to matter either way.

He hadn't been sure what to do with the stab of pride he'd felt the day she got her diploma. But he figured, considering the kiss and smile he got when she walked off the podium and into his arms told him that just being there was good enough for her.

* * *

He woke up again when one of the floor boards creaked. He dug his face deeper into the crease between the pillows. He knew the sound like the back of his hand. Third stair, fifth board on the right hand side – also known as number six thousand five-hundred and seven-fuckin'-six on his fix-it list.

The knob turned, slow and cautious as the house settled. He smothered a small, sloppy little smile into the sheets as the bed dipped and she settled into the hollows of his spine.

"The kids?" he rasped, voice low, pitching deep with sleep and disuse as she rolled on top of him, plastering herself along his back like she wanted nothing more than to stay there for the rest of her life.

The bed-springs twanged – groaning and shifting under their combined weight.

"School," she answered, blowing out a gust of air before she dug her face into the crease of his neck, knocking her purse off the chair across from the bed as her feet flailed out for balance. "We just made the bus on time."

He grunted, figuring that was answer enough as she played with the feathers of his hair, smoothing them behind his ears as he drifted – quiet – content. Every time he breathed, she breathed with him, rising and falling together as the minutes trickled past.

Somewhere outside a bird trilled, kicking up a fuss as the sarcastic chitter of a ground squirrel made its opinions known. Probably fighting over the bird feeder again.

"You going to stay in bed all day?" she teased, laughing when one of his hands started inching out from underneath him, spidering across the mattress.

"Thinkin' about it," he mumbled, forcing his face deeper into the pillows on pure principle, until his hands found her, running a palm down her flank by touch alone, tracing the freckles he knew by heart as she made a low sound in the back of her throat – pleased.

* * *

They said nothing for a while after that, just drinking in the quiet, a rare day when they were both off and had the house to themselves. There was no excited giggling or sibling rivalry. No tripping over stray Legos or shaking glitter out of his hair. Unbelievably, the afternoon was theirs.

And sleepy as he was, his cock was definitely considering the possibilities. Call him a dirty opportunist or just practical, but he figured it couldn't hurt to turn the heat on.

He rolled them – a hitching languorous slide as he thumbed at the waistband of her skirt.

"You're over dressed, Nurse Peletier," he breathed, huffing a laugh into her skin as she fought him for it – playful and breathless as he pinned her underneath him, taking her weight when she threw her arms around his neck and  _clung_  – like a possum to a tree branch – trying and failing to make him topple over.

"And you are  _under_ -dressed, Mr. Dixon," she shot back, nipping up for a kiss while he was distracted.

"I'm in bed," he pointed out, stuttering near the end as she stroked him through the twisted ropes of sheets and comforters. "Life don't get much more under-dressed than this," he added, moving into the press of her palm as she set about investigating the truth of his claim -  _thoroughly_.

He grunted when her hand curled around him, all skin-warmed fingers and a sinfully smooth glide.  _She always knew exactly what he needed._

"In fact, I am thinking of making a new rule," he added, hips following the slow, teasing rhythm of her palm as she thumbed his crown, slicking the head with an overgenerous blurt of pre-cum as he hardened further. His spine arced as her nails caught gently underneath the flare of his ridge.

"Hmm? And what's that?" she hummed, indulgent and syrupy-slow as the curtains - a whisping muslin-lace that framed the far window - flared in the early afternoon breeze.

"No clothing allowed in the bedroom."

Her laugh was a visceral thing, something overwhelming and bone-deep as he burrowed into her.

"Ground breaking," she said with a giggle.

"Yep, I'm putting my foot down, laying down the law," he returned, throwing an arm over his eyes as the sun lanced through the blinds. Trying and failing to preserve his mock-serious expression as she pressed a smile into his skin.

"Then it would appear I am in violation of this new rule," she returned, nearly making him choke on his god damned tongue when she skimmed down and licked a stripe clear up his length.

"Whatever shall I do?" she murmured, giving him the ol' eyebrow raise as his dick jerked, overstimulated but jonesing for more as she blew at the slick of saliva she'd left on his prick.  _Christ._

"I can think of a few things," he replied, quick on the mark as he levered himself up on his elbows and gave her a pointed once over.

"I'll bet!" she chirped, laughter muffled under the press of pillows and skin as he pounced and she tried to dive clear off the bed. Turning the entire upstairs into a hot, echoing mess of borderline indecent sounds, until their wrasslin' and teasing was abandoned for far more  _interesting_  pursuits.

* * *

When they came up for air, her mouth all wet and pink, skin red from his stubble, he kept his face buried into the curve of her neck. He breathed her in determinedly, her smell, her skin, her  _everything_. Idly thinking about long shots and second chances as his thoughts strayed back to the day they'd met.

Somewhere outside, a pair of robins trilled.

* * *

He blamed the muted strains of the afternoon news filtering up from the radio in the kitchen for the words that eventually tumbled forth - reality shittin' on the moment or whatever.

Truth was, the conversation was probably a long time coming.

"Do you think anything like that will ever happen again?" she asked, voice careful, like she was trying to make an effort not to sound brittle as she snuggled deeper in to the crook of his arm.

Something deep in the pit of his belly _twisted_.

It had been a long time since she'd sounded like that.

_Breakable. Worried. Unsure._

"Nah, I think there's an unspoken rule of only one near apocalypse a century," he snorted, unsure of how to deal with it other than to crack out something that made him sound like the world's biggest dick and then some.

Her smile was tremulous and small, like it was more for his benefit than anything else.

He forced himself to sober, watching as she fussed with the sheets.

He didn't have to ask what she was dwelling on. It'd been all over the news since the weekend. And it had more than a few people spooked. The entire thing seemed like a giant clusterfuck from start to finish. The Government was rocking between public relations committees and that  _hush-hush-everything's-fine_  PR bullshit that only made people realize that there was actually something to be panicking about in the first place.

People were already crying foul, hip-deep in the blame game and unsurprisingly, the Military was already coming out as the most reviled scape-goat in the running. And really, who could blame them? It didn't seem like much of a stretch to pin this on them, especially after the mist. In fact, some people were even proposing it was a direct causation – another batch of unexpected fallout from the 'Invasion from Mars' bullshit.

"But that virus," she began, unconsciously twisting at the sheets as the muffled chatter from the radio smoothed into some twangy, old-time country song that immediately put his hackles up.  _The kids had been fucking around with the stations again._

"Daryl, I don't know, it sounds bad. I've never heard of anything like it, no one has. The CDC in Atlanta is stumped, all the doctors are talking about it at the hospital, even the director said-"

He cut her off, determined to nip that shit right in the bud, "Maybe it is. Maybe everything goes to hell again. What happens, happens. Fuck if we can do anything about it. But if it does, at least this time I know where you'll be."

The smile he got this time was still small, but unmistakably genuine.

"You found me," she murmured, knuckling out the wrinkles she put in the sheet as he tightened his hold around her a fraction. Wondering if she knew it had come out sounding more like a question than a statement. He knew better than to ask. Recognizing the look on her face that told him she was already a million miles away, shuffling through both old memories and new, trying to decide how to react to where she figured their conversation was heading.

His stretched, coltish and warm, still languishing in that post coital smugness that seemed to permeate every limb, every muscle and sinew. It was alive in every part of him he swore he'd never known existed until she'd done the impossible and teased pleasure out from something he figured had no business feeling as good as it did. The learning curve with her was wicked, and damn him to hell if he hadn't loved every minute of it.

Her gaze was expectant now. He knew what she was waiting for. She was waiting for a fierce denial and the broad plane of his back as he turned around, uncertain of how to be anything else but annoyed with her for all her worrying. She was waiting for the handful of beats that would span out before he figured he probably owed her an apology, for the following three or four hours until the kids got home and the hours spent stewing in their own thoughts.

_Personally, he figured she aught'a know better._

_He'd never been one to stick to script._

"And I will again, if I gotta," he affirmed, reeling her in another impossible inch, flattening her across his chest, like if he was lucky, pieces of her would somehow absorb into his skin, strengthening him in ways he'd never realized a person could be.

It sounded cliché and awful, but he didn't care. He meant it -  _all of it_.

"I know," she hummed, nails tracing whorls and arcs across the span of his shoulders before carding through his hair, singing some muffled little verse into his nape like an afterthought.

He just enjoyed it, bemused, content to let her think it though – processing it as the bird and the squirrel bickered somewhere outside. Rolling his eyes under closed lids as the sound of tiny, scrabbling claws ripped into the bark of the old oak, a steady accompaniment to the throbbing base as the robin paced along the laundry line, plotting his next move.

It was probably about time to go out there with his crossbow and lay down the law before they upended the feeder again. And yet, he remained where he was. Considering the circumstances, he just couldn't bring himself to move. Apparently this was the kind of shit that happened when you were only a few centimetres shy of content. You started giving half a crap about the stupid stuff. About having to rake bird seed out of the grass or limit your squirrel-cull to when Wanda and Victor were at school lest he get a repeat of what happened the last time.

"No heels," she grinned, breaking him out of his thoughts before he could get too invested in actually giving a damn.

"No heels," he agreed.

* * *

"You know that saying about birds singing after a hurricane?" she ventured after a while, drowsing in the lazy sliver of sun that'd escaped the blinds and spilled across the mattress.

"I suppose it says something that it didn't take long for the birds to return," she mused, breathing hotly into the press of his throat – worry apparently forgotten.

It seemed like far too sweet of an opportunity to waste. So when he reared up and pulled her on top him, drawing an indignant squeak as her toes fish-tailed across the duvet, he kissed her lips back into that soft, rose-bud press that'd never failed to make his blood  _sing_. Determined to return to the sweetness that had existed between them only a few minutes before.

"So, sing for me then, bird," he rasped, looking up at her as the sunlight lanced through the auburn-red of her hair, backlighting the ruffled strands that stood up like primary feathers caught in a cross-breeze.

She laughed, soft and whole, the sheets rustling like wings as she squirmed, leaning down for a kiss, a quick peck that turned into a second and a third when both of them got greedy. More than willing to help her hit the high notes as his hand snuck between them, coaxing out a hitching breath and a gratifying moan before he rolled her underneath him.

He swallowed her giggles right up until the headboard started creakin' and suddenly there was no more breath to waste on anything but the feeling.

They ignored the daylight streaming in through the window. Ignored the news reports that were probably streaming across CNN and Fox News in searing, day-glow red. Ignored the fact that it was past mid-day and neither one of them had a clue what to make for dinner.

Instead they just basked in it.

Determined to milk whatever they had, whatever  _this_ was, all the way to the last drop.

He'd promised her that much already.

Most birds mate for life, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N #2: Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! This story is now complete. – What a whirl wind! I just wanted to take a moment and thank each and every one of you for sticking with this story through my long hiatus and the span of chapters before and after. I never thought this fic would take off like it did and it was an utter joy to write. Thank you for all your love and encouragement (and poking) you all know who you are!
> 
> "Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?" – Rose Kennedy


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